Bitter for Sweet
by visceralfringe
Summary: Loki, who has been eternally banished from the Nine Realms for his crimes, has found asylum in a deepspace port colony. He takes a position in a bordello disguised as a cabaret as the Master of Ceremonies. However, the owner of the establishment takes to exploiting him for transactions that do not correspond with their original agreement.
1. Introduction

**Title:** Bitter for Sweet (Inspired by Blaqk Audio's single and an illustration I will have to find a way to link to.)

**Genre:** Dark Fantasy/Horror (seriously folks)

**Verse:** Marvel's Avengers with a little Star Wars, Day Breakers, Moulin Rouge, Cabaret… etc.

**Pairing:** Loki/Thor … and maybe MAYBE a little bit of Loki/Steve.

**Setting:** Semi alternate universe, set perhaps two to three centuries after the Avengers film. Thanos (giant purple troll cameo-ed at the end of the movie) has defeated Odin and taken over Asgard.

**Introduction:** Thanos' rule has corrupted the Nine Realms. Thor eventually succumbs to the pervasive evil when Thanos alters his memories. His tainted nature manifests in full when he begins to partake in drinking blood, a wicked practice spreading like wildfire through the Nine Realms. Thus, he joins the ranks of the Harvesters spawned from Chitauri and Asgardians, known for their ruthlessness and vampirism. Thor assumes the name Marx and becomes a commander in Thanos' fleet of Imperial Enforcers.

Loki, who has been eternally banished from Asgard for his crimes, has found asylum in a deep space port colony in the Vata System. He takes a position in a bordello (disguised as a cabaret) as the Master of Ceremonies. Anton, the owner of the establishment Menagerie de Mire takes to exploiting Loki for transactions that do not correspond with their original agreement. Loki's blood is a rarity this deep in the galaxy and Harvesters are willing to pay handsomely for a taste.


	2. Capital T

**I used to stand for something. Now I'm on my hands and knees, trading in my god for this one.**

**And he signs his name with a capital T.**

**~ Nine Inch Nails**

* * *

The air inside the bordello is foggy and fragrant. Music plays above the garrulous chatter. The lighting is low. The ceiling is hidden in a smoke cloud of blue and red oxides. It smells of liquor, sweat, and all things sordid. Incense burns in braisers near the entrance in an effort to mask anything offensive. There are colored stains on the floor where customers missed the spittoon. The bar is crowded and noisy and the tender is busy filling orders. There is a small sitting area adjoining the bar, spotted with tables, chairs, and several poles mounted on cylindrical stools. Beyond the sitting area is an old stage. Behind the stage wall is a lounge area for more private services. The establishment is flanked by accommodations for the employees who need lodging. The majority of them work for room and board. Any tips go to Anton. It's a clever trap, the Menagerie de Mire. She is an ugly woman, caked in gratuitous amounts of makeup.

Loki's pleasant voice landed him the job. But other attributes of his often land him in trouble.

The rotting door swings open on rusty hinges and a blubberous balding man barges inside. "Loki," Anton Kline prompts.

The mirror shows a kink in his liner now. Loki adopts a surly expression, clutching the smoldering needle of Onyx between his fingers. His melodic voice, however, does not fail him. "Knocking - another simple courtesy long bereft in the dregs of immorality." He leans closer to the mirror and goes back to scalding the skin around his eyes.

Kline chuffs. "Spare me the drabble. We've got Enforcers coming in tonight."

Loki sets the tool aside. Spitefully, "Fabulous. They're sure to empty your stock and leave no tips."

"Just do your job right and show the head honcho a little extra attention. I don't need these guys giving me the shakedown and my place a bad rap." Loki flits his hand through the air, dismissing him and his reminders. "No screwups," Kline warns, assuming a serious, guttural tone. "And spice it up some. You're getting boring." He slams the door, grumbling as he lumbers back down the hall.

"As if I ever screw up you blithering dolt," Loki hisses to himself, pulling the first leather glove up over his elbow. It is the truth. He cannot afford to lose this cubicle of a bedroom.

* * *

The night is well underway when Loki finally emerges onto the stage, wearing a smirk befitting the best of snake charmers. The stage grows brighter, as to draw attention. Customers begin to clap. He has managed to keep a lean, muscular physic in his exile, however pale his skin remains. Aesthetic appeal is essential in this line of work. His attire consists of fitted black pants, held up at the hips with black suspenders over his naked chest. He wears sleek black gloves, but his feet are bare. He has kept his hair long, frilled out at the clavicle and slicked back, save for a few strands in front. Loki also wears a studded black choker band around his neck, although it did not start out that way.

The band of Enforcers are indeed among his audience. Loki begins, using his most beguiling entertainer's voice. "Regulars, strangers - Friends, all." The crowd quiets down. "Lovely to -" He pauses, just for an instant, because the blond with the imperial seal of Thanos on his hat looks disturbingly like Thor. But he_ cannot_ be Thor. His face is clean-shaven, too defined, and his eyes are too dark. His hair is pulled back, knotted under the anterior brim of his cap. No, he cannot be Thor. His alarm dissolves.

Pretentiously, "Lovely to see you. Lovely, lovely, lovely. Sit, stay for awhile. I see we have some very special guests of the house this evening." He extends his hand, indicating the party of Enforcers. "Welcome! Welcome to the incredible, exotic, and always," he rolls his shoulders in a subtle shimmy, "lascivious Menagerie de Mire. Madams and Messieurs, Ladies… and_ Gentlemen_." He waggles his eyebrows. The audience cheers. Loki's arms ascend. "I am your host! Your Master of Ceremonies. Don't you all look ravishing," with a predatory grin.

"Tonight, the world is perfect. Do leave your troubles outside. So life is disappointing, forget it! In here, life is beautiful. The girls are beautiful. Even the host is beautiful." He winks. The crowd laughs and some whistle. "And now presenting our talented flock!" A train of women, hailing from various races and corners of the galaxy but all stage-worthy, trot out from behind the curtain. Their scandalous attire makes the audience erupt in cheers. Some of the girls blow kisses. Others hike their outfits a little higher to show more skin. Time for introductions.

"Rochette, Elday, Norine, Minx, Hester," who is actually not a woman at all, "Brista… and the deliciously tempting Erzjabet." The last girl, featured this evening as a newcomer to the troop, takes Loki's hand. He gives her a twirl and dips her backwards.

Loki looks at the audience, "Each and every one a _virgin_." There are more whistlers, jeers, and laughter. The girls look playfully offended. Loki covers his lips and looks at them. They all start giggling. Loki places his hands on his hips and angles his body back to the crowd, "Oh, you don't believe me?" The audience hoots and hollers. "Well, do not take my word for it. Go ahead, ask them yourselves." The girls begin a dance number. The cheers swell with the music. Loki exits stage right, into the quiet behind the curtain.

Loki takes a moment to catch his breath. The incident with the blond did not escape Kline's notice.

"What in the hell happened?" he hisses. "You nearly choked out there!"

Loki scowls. Poisonously, "Nothing."

Anton is fuming, practically purple like a swollen radish. "Then get your ass back on the stage and put on a show!" Loki flicks a bit of spittle from his cheek. "You better butter up the one with the imperial seal. That's the commander. And he's not looking too thrilled about what he's seeing." Kline tromps away. Loki glances out through a discrete split in the curtain at the commander. He looks on, seemingly uninterested. The rest of his crew are grinning and whistling their approval, but not him. Garbed in black, he reclines in the sturdy wooden chair he dwarfs, his freshly shined boots crossed at the ankle and his arms folded over his chest.

Loki massages his temples. Once again, his entire existence hinges on keeping a blond happy.

* * *

The lighting dims to blue. The girls have danced and Loki has entreated for some time now. Some of the dancers come down from the stage and thread their way through the audience to take their place on the cylindrical stools. They bend and twirl around the poles like acrobats, climbing and sliding down with supernatural ease. Several continue to dance, slow and hypnotically, on the stage. Rochette curls around the pole closest to the commander and is soon surrounded by his troops. But the commander himself does not take the bait. He seems much more intrigued by his drink, which is growing noticeably low.

Loki stands on righthand staircase ascending to the stage, shouldering the wall in the cold shadows. Rochette manages to catch his eyes, flashing him a worried look during one of her spins.

Loki rolls his eyes, his jaw working behind his pursed lips. _Stubborn bastard._ He has no choice.

Loki descends to the ground level and strolls up to the brawny commander. He circles around behind his chair, dragging his finger along the broad line of his shoulders. He watches his head swivel slightly. Loki comes full circle and puts his knee on the commander's knee, hooking his thumbs in the suspender links on the hem of his pants. The commander's dark, dangerous leer gradually travels up Loki's body, appraising him in a degrading way Loki is numb to by now. Loki tilts his head with a suggestive look in his eyes, smirking disarmingly, keeping his face carefully aenesthetized when he is once again reminded of Thor.

He waits for a signal of some sort, for permission to continue. He gets it.

The commander sits back and sets his drink aside, his eyes boring into Loki's eyes. The resemblance to Thor is striking up close too, even in the dim light. Loki's heart climbs into his throat. Luckily, he is a born performer.

Loki's hand glides down his thigh as he bends at the hips and takes the commander's imperial cap. He puts it on. Loki swings his leg over the commander's thigh and sits astride his hips, rolling once against his groin, and looking into his face. The commander unfurls his bulky arms. He slides his hand up Loki's thigh. Loki ghosts his leather coated index finger under the commander's smooth jaw, trying to coax out a smile. Instead, the commander's eyes zero in and lock on the choker. Loki's face blanks. His heart plummets from his throat into his gut. The commander's eyes travel back up, freezing Loki in place with a diabolical smirk seething with lazy arrogance. It is an utterly damning expression. He recognizes it. Loki silently curses himself.

These Enforcers are not local to the Vata System.


	3. In Fiction

**Through fiction, we saw the birth of futures yet to come.**

**Yet in fiction lay the bones, ugly in their nakedness.**

**Under this mortal sun, we cannot hide ourselves.**

**~ Isis**

* * *

Loki's drab room is small and sparsely furnished. At the foot of the low bed, there is a small, cracked chest containing what he has of clothing. There is a chair and a three-legged desk which leans against the wall for support, like a lame dog. Above that is a mirror, speckled with black dots, like a stationary swarm of flies. The paint on the walls is peeling and two of the corners are stained yellowy brown from leaks in the roof. Sometimes, he is able to project the illusion of his room on Asgard, or what he remembers of it. That time is so distant, hovering near the outskirts of his memory. On occasions escalating in frequency, he wonders if he merely dreamt it all. The gilded trick is meant to cater to his last remnants of vanity, but it makes reality all the worse when it fades.

Oh God of Mischief, how far you have fallen. His is a dream differed, a worm ridden apple, a loaf of maggoty bread, and moth-eaten sheets. The glamour of it all is only skin-deep.

"You cannot do this again," Loki pleads, undone with horror.

"On the contrary. I'm your boss. I can do whatever I damn well please," Kline retorts, his walking carcass festering under his sweat stained tunic. He rubs the snot dripping from his nose on his sleeve and sniffs what is left back up into his sinuses. He props his fists on his ample hips.

Loki shakes his head. "This was never part of our arrangement." He sputters and nearly loses his composure, "None of them were!"

"Word gets around, spreads quickly in port colonies like this." Anton raises his thick, four fingered hands, palms turned out as if the act of surrender remedies everything. "Look Loki. It's nothing personal. It' just business. Frost Giant blood has all but been farmed out of the Nine Realms. It's good money for me. Therefore, it's good money for everyone." He rubs his sweaty palms together greedily.

"You have no idea what it's like, not the slightest inkling!"

"Nope." He pats his belly proudly. With a smug smile, "I don't, cosmos be praised. Cause my blood is as plain as white rice and filthy as a slum-gutter."

Loki persists, "It's not just blood they take. It… It's memories. It's experiences. It's pieces-"

"Bah." Anton bats a gnat away from his face. "What do you care? You're immortal. You have lots of those."

Loki fantasizes about taking a blade to his throat. He advances aggressively, fisting his hands. "I would rather whore my body!" he snaps.

"That can be arranged."

Loki blanches. He is paralyzed by the deadness of his reply. The shock sobers him. He uncoils his hands. "I refuse, Anton. No."

Kline shrugs. "Alright. Then I'll toss you out on the streets, let AkoII ruin you herself. You got no money. Good luck finding a dive before something else finds you. Maybe one of them Harvesters will snatch you up and bleed you out." He grins crookedly, because he knows he has him.

Loki's strength is leaving him. Hoarsely, "You will rot for this."

Kline laughs. "Not today, princess. Don't fret. I've already told him how indispensible you are to my zoo." He lumbers towards the door, practically waddling. "And if something goes wrong, he is responsible for finding a replacement." Loki's eyes widen. "Get cleaned up. He'll be waiting in the booth." He slams the door, leaving Loki alone to stare at the feeble, rattling rampart.

Loki combs his fingers back through his hair, shaking with rage and apprehension.

Harvesters come in two forms – Astauri, the spawn of Chitauri and Asgardians, and a Nameless category. What differentiates them is the way they take blood. Astauri have a specialized tongue, almost like a needle. They are designed to take blood, because it is their natural sustenance. The others, the ones who have merely converted, use their teeth to break the skin. And when it comes to deepspace colonies, customers are always unusual and teeth come in an array of dental patterns. Human is the most painful, because unlike more carnivorous beasts, their teeth are flat. Harvesters follow certain rituals and traditions, according to their hub religion. Some are allowed to use knives. Some are not. Some choose not to. Some take from the wrist instead of the neck. Some only drink if they mean to kill the host.

But there is one characteristic that remains constant among all Harvesters – they are rough.

They care nothing for the host. The transaction is further abusive if the Harvester chooses to break mental barriers and access personal information imprinted in the blood. Some Harvesters become crazed by the experience and go berserk in the midst of a feed. Some take chunks from their victims, leaving them to bleed out, regardless if they mean to drain them or not.

The aftermath is even worse. Loki's numb body stumbles around in a fog for a day or two, uncertain what is truth and what is contrived. He hallucinates. He forgets his location. He has no appetite. He drifts in and out of consciousness, misplacing his identity, like a living doll. He is trapped in his own body. During these times, he has endured several horrific incidents with individuals more depraved than himself. It is not uncommon for victims less powerful to never awaken from that trance-like condition.

Vampirism – the way Thanos differentiates the weak from the strong. Convert, or be killed.

The chair groans. Loki can sympathize. He reaches around and unclasps his choker. He removes the black band and chances a glance into the mirror. For whatever reason, the wounds never heal. They scar, and even with Loki's magic and regenerative cells, the scars remain as permanent reminders. He traces the crescent shapes. He removes the gloves next, noting the similar marks on his wrists.

He moves through the automated routine of freshening up, nursing a bottle of a potent green liquid that could be a distant relation of Absinthe in the meantime. He stands in front of another mirror in the privy patched with grime. He pushes his wet hair back. His attention snags on the scars again because they are so prominent in the ghoulish green light, especially with his hair combed completely out of the way. He envisions them sloshing off, like dead skin. Yet, when he moves to touch them, they have not left. He stares at himself emotionlessly, devoid of pity and drained of remorse. He chose this. For him, it is the way things must be.

Loki slides into another pair of black pants and a belted black tunic. The sleeves are loose and long, the neck cut in the shape of a v. There is nothing special about the plain garments. Black just hides blood the best. These dealings are never done cleanly. Not in his experience anyway.

* * *

The girls either retired for the evening or have business elsewhere because the halls are empty. Loki can hear his feet against the floor and the hollow sounds are haunting. He crosses through the empty lounge. The dilapidating state of it is less prevalent in the low red lighting. He pushes the heavy burgundy curtain serving as the booth's door aside and steps inside. The curtain settles back into place behind him.

Thor's lookalike stares back at him from the couch. His merciless eyes are drawn to Loki's neck. Loki self-consciously pulls his hair over his shoulder.

"You're no stranger to this, I see." Loki must have imbibed far too much spirits, because this man even _sounds_ like Thor. Darker. Harsher. But still…

Loki hardens his expression. Numbly, "If you're not into recycling, I can always leave."

The blond smirks and inclines his chin. "I am Commander Marx, of the Imperial Enforcers under Emperor Thanos."

Marx. Not Thor. Marx. Mirthlessly, "You tell me as though I should care."

"You're not nearly as entertaining as you were on stage." Loki averts his eyes, his jaw working tensely behind his lips. "I'd hate to have to ask for a refund," the commander baits. The threat makes Loki want to vomit. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through the nose. He is a born performer. He is a born _liar_. Loki steels himself.

Loki turns his attention back to Marx with a decidedly different look in his eyes. He smirks disarmingly. "How might I serve you this evening, commander?"

* * *

Loki's eyes flutter open. The world moves in and out of focus, as through the lens of an old camera. There is a ceiling above him awash in red light. Loki squints. His ceiling is not red. He swallows dryly, his mind floundering in the confusion. It is cold. But AkoII is a desert planet. It is never cold. The notion hardly fazes him. He assumes Anton left the temperature generator on by mistake. He raises hand, meaning to rub his face. His fingers are slick... and warm, smearing something sticky over his cheek.

Loki frowns. He opens his eyes. His hand is red. It's the light.

No. His hand is red.

Loki turns his hand, studying the way some places are glossy and dark. There is a mark on his wrist. It's a bite mark. He sees it happen in a violent flashback. Pieces come rushing back to him. Loki sits up with a start, the black of his clothing somehow soothing. His head spins, his vision swims, and he nearly tumbles off the sofa onto the floor. There are glossy splashes on the couch. On the curtain. Loki glances down at what is exposed of his chest. It is unmarked. But his torso tingles – stings. Loki's hands quiver as he raises them towards the v neck. He gradually pulls the fabric aside, spreading it wide. He stares at another bite mark on the right side of his chest, crusted with red. Shaking, Loki starts to check himself over. There are more. Like tracks, the marks dot his abdomen and snake over his arms. New, thin rivets of red are trickling down from his neck. Loki cannot react, pitched headlong into shock.

A violent flashback of a man seizing his wrist, yanking him close, shoving him down.

Loki stares at his knees, but he sees a shoulder. He hears a distorted voice.

Loki opens his mouth, like he means to call for someone. The skin pulls painfully. His hand flies to his lower lip, greeted by a familiar crescent shaped scab. The horrible truth dawns on him.

It's… blood. It's all _his_ blood.


	4. Mama Sed

**Changes come. Keep your dignity. Take the high road.**

**Take it like a man.**

**~ Puscifer vs Tandimonium**

* * *

Time passes in blurry segments, separated by blocks of darkness. He wakes. He sleeps. His senses are so warped that he cannot differentiate between dreams and reality. Loki has no gage of how much time has passed when he finally finds his feet. Every step is a struggle. His depth perception is unreliable. He stumbles. Loki crosses through the empty lounge and staggers back down the hall. He uses the wall to give him balance, inadvertently smearing it with the blood on his hands. He focuses on his breathing, because he can do little else. He hears it, and though he knows it comes from his own lungs, it sounds foreign to him.

The hall is dark enough that he does not see the drag marks on the floor and the splatters on the walls. He steps in something with a wet plop, some sort of puddle on the floor.

_Damn roof…_

By the time Loki reaches the bathroom, he is exhausted. Yet, he knows he cannot go and lay down to rest until he rinses the blood off. The all-consuming desire to do so is the singular driving force that gives him the strength to go on.

Loki sets the lock on the door. He does not look in the mirror as he treks towards the shower basin. He steps inside, pulls the switch, and lets the chilly water rain down on him. He stands, fully clothed, and watches the red circle the drain in swirls, like paint. The blood looks unnaturally dark under the greenish light. Soon, the entire basin is dark red, as though Loki is melting, oozing the stuff. His clothes grow heavy and he sinks, sitting under the chilly stream. He is still too numb to notice the cold, or the intense pain coursing through him.

In the seclusion of the washroom, he allows himself the luxury of recounting the incident. There is something stirring inside his chest, a nervousness, an anxiety nagging at the back of his mind, as though he has forgotten something important. He enters the booth. Marx introduces himself. Everything becomes a jumbled mess after that. Loki shrugs. It is of no consequence now. The deed is done.

* * *

He has no idea how long he has been sitting under the water when he shakes himself out of another fugue. He absently takes inventory of his hands, flexing them. The pain is coming.

Loki strips out of his sopping wet attire and leaves it to soak in the basin. He will take soap to it later. He removes a tattered towel from the rack, once more avoiding the mirror as he passes. He dries off and crosses the hall into his room, shutting the world out when he is inside. He reasons he must have been asleep for quite some time because the wounds are already starting to scab. Probably a day or so.

It takes Loki awhile to realize that this is not his room, as evidenced from the frilly skirts and risqué tops strewn all over the floor. This is Rochette's room. It is empty none the less. Or so it seems to be.

* * *

Finally inside his own room, Loki collapses in bed and falls into a listless, nightmarish sleep, plagued by flashbacks of bites and blood. He drifts in and out for hours. The sun rises and sets behind the coarse curtain covering his window, bared against intrusion from the outside. Most of the windows in this sector of AkoII are. Loki rouses when the world is dark again. His oil lamp is lit. He has no recollection of lighting it. Sitting up is agony, but the pain never makes it onto his deadened mask of a face.

He begins the hunt for clothing. The wounds have stopped bleeding for the most part, but he should choose a dark shirt just in case. He pulls on the black pants he wore during the last show and removes a forest green tunic from the chest. He holds it up, noting the holes in the thin, breathable fabric. He sighs. When Loki lowers the garment, he notices something on his desk, glinting in the feign light of the oil lamp mounted by the door. He balls the shirt up in his hand and approaches his desk. He picks up a slender vial, the tiny bottle opaque enough to reveal the shimmery silver sheen of its contents. There is a note beneath it.

In dark block letters – **Use this.**

Loki sinks onto the foot of his bed and opens the vile. The lotion-like material is viscose. He applies a dab to his lacerated wrist and rubs it in reflexively. Loki must be hallucinating because before his eyes, the bite mark is vanishing. And not just the more recent mark either, but the old scars too.

Sometime later, Loki stares into his mirror, hardly recognizing his reflection. The miraculous mystery serum has erased every scar and he stands unscathed. Loki wonders if this is Kline's way of trying to make up for handing him over to Marx. He has to admit that he is pleased. He chances a subtle smirk. Loki is not nearly as upset with the old walrus as he was before. Loki snatches his green tunic from his desk, accidentally knocking the letter off in the process. It flutters down to the floor. Loki returns to the chest and exchanges the old green garment for a sleeveless black vest, which he can wear for the first time without feeling self conscious. His shame has been erased. As he buttons up the vest, Loki notices the paper on the floor and realizes there is something else written on the back. He gingerly picks up the piece of paper.

**I shall return for you.**

Loki balks. And suddenly, everything feels wrong. Where is everyone? Why is it so quiet? Why hasn't Anton come to pester him? At least one of the girls, if not all, usually stop by to say hello after Anton forces him into blood dealings. Loki throws his door open, nearly tearing it off the hinges. The thick odor of blood is the first thing to assault his senses. He recognizes his own bloody bare footprints on the floor, but there are more crossing them – solid, imprints made by imperial boots. The hall is dark. The generator must be down.

"Roch? " Loki calls. "Damn," he mutters, double backing to grab the oil lamp, trying to be annoyed instead of anxious.

There are long red drag marks up and down the hall. Glossy puddles of coagulating blood spot the floors. The smell is getting worse. There are signs of violence on the walls, a place where someone may have been stabbed. Loki hurries into Rochette's room. "Rochette!" he calls a second time. As he passes her bed, he nearly stumbles. When he twists around to check what he tripped over, he sees a snowy arm sticking out from under the bed, adorned in a familiar jeweled bracelet.

He discovers more corpses in the lounge. The girl's bodies, strewn over recliners and behind couches, are covered in bite marks, some more gruesomely mutilated than others. More comes rushing back - the screaming, the chaos, the slaughter.

Anton Kline sits limp in the chair behind his desk, his head drooping to the side, the skin around the slit in his throat stretched and torn. There is a knife embedded in his eye socket. Loki staggers backwards and spins around, coming face to face with a familiar diabolical smirk.


	5. Rock Me Amadeus

**Because he had flair, he was too big for all. He was a virtuoso, was a rock idol.**

**And everyone shouted –**

**Come and rock me Amadeus.**

**~ Megaherz**

* * *

Marx tangles his fingers into the hem of Loki's tunic. Unintentionally, their stark attire matches. Marx stands close enough for Loki to count the blond lashes that wreathe his eyes. Marx's head is bowed, but not in submission. Rather, he is giving Loki the demeaning inspection again. It is as though Marx uses their proximity as a weapon. Marx meets his eyes and Loki's professional facade falters.

This feels too intimate. The intense desire in Marx's gaze is extremely unsettling. There is a hunger there, ferocious enough to devour entire worlds. Those blue eyes are so familiar, and so foreign. Loki roots his feet to the floor, forcing himself to stand there and accept the shame – soak in every last bit of the truth that he abides there on Marx's dime, a mere possession until the meter is empty. The lack of control weighs on his heart. Loki is by no means a fragile creature. He has never been servile or receptive to being taken advantage of. This was not in the job description.

Marx's muscular physique is fuller than Loki's, but he is only a mere few measures taller. Given that fact, Loki cannot fathom how the commander intimidates him like he does. Marx is already worming his way inside Loki's head. Loki blanches when he feels the foremost wall around his mind rupture… as though Marx took a sledgehammer to it.

(In theory, Marx has. Because the Hammer of Thor, once wielded by hand, is now a purely psychological weapon.)

A shooting pain rips through Loki's skull, and Marx hasn't even sank his teeth into him yet. It is at the moment that Loki knows Marx means to take absolutely everything from him. And he does.

* * *

"Going somewhere?" Marx asks, flanked by two of his subordinates. Taking advantage of Loki's alarm, Marx seizes him by the wrist and reels him in. Loki drops the lamp by accident. The glass shell shatters, fire quickly crawling over the split oil, creeping across the floor, and combing the walls. Marx's attention rakes over Loki's upper body. His smile makes him look more malicious than pleased when he registers the effectiveness of the regerist serum. The spreading fire doesn't even faze him.

Loki's mind is still reeling and Marx's eyes fetter him like chains. The climbing flames paint his face with sinister shadows. There is so much death around him. He is uncertain what all of it means but he knows it bodes ill for him. With all the might he can muster, Loki slams his fist across Marx's face. The power behind such a strike would snap the hinge of a human jaw and shatter the bone into an irreparable mess of shards. Loki is met with inhuman resistance and the bruising strength of a supernatural framework. Nevertheless, Marx wavers just enough, relinquishing the iron grasp on his wrist. Loki does not wait for him to recover. He runs.

Marx maneuvers his jaw back into place, the clinking crack resounding like thunder above the flames. He fixes his subordinates in a wintry glare and nods in the direction of Loki's fleeing figure.

Loki vaults over one of the sofas, running towards the stairs leading to the backstage area. He races up the steps, bursts through the door to the curtain hall, and rushes out onto the stage. He jumps down onto the ground level and careens through the empty sitting area. He dashes past the bar, erupting from the doors of the saloon into the desert air of AkoII. Three red moons hover in the starlit sky, varying in size according to their proximity to the vast, barren planet. Most of the other planets in the Vata System are surrounded by impregnable asteroid shelfs, making them relatively uninhabitable for prospective settlers.

The buildings on the outskirts of the settlement are farther apart than they are in the inner city and it makes hiding a great deal more difficult. The terrain rolls and dips with hills and gullies, rendering mechanized transportation more trouble than it is worth. Furthermore, AkoII is largely comprised of colonists too poor to afford mechanized transportation. Most residents use urvine, a distant relation of the draft horse with the conservation capabilities of the camel, to get around. They are long legged, robust creatures, notoriously difficult to manage. Loki has never had much luck with them.

Anton's roan is tied near the water trough. Loki has no time to complain. (Because he surely would if he did.)

He mounts the cumbersome animal and uses what he can of his wounded power to vanish the tether. The beast rears up when the Enforcers burst through the door and Loki is barely able to maintain his seat. The urvine's wide hooves slam back into the hard packed earth with jarring force. It steps high and tosses its heavy head. Loki cannot seem to figure out how to get it to…_go_, for lack of a better word.

One of the Enforcers raises his firearm. Marx, whom Loki did not even see emerge into the open through the smoke pouring from the bordello, shoves the man's arm down just as he pulls the trigger. The sound spooks Anton's roan. Mark and Loki exchange a look, Loki convicting and Marx complacent, that lasts less than an instant before the colossal animal veers north and darts away, leaving Marx and his men in a mixture of smoke and dust.

As he tightens his hold on the reigns, Loki tries to shake the image from his mind. It was as though Marx was mocking him, taunting him, conveying without words that no matter where he runs, Marx still owns every fiber of his being.

* * *

The sun is rising. Loki sits and relaxes against the alley wall of a trading post in the neighboring county, attempting to formulate a plan. He has a splitting headache. His legs are extremely sore as well. The roan nudges his shoulder, nearly knocking him over. "Oh, you're fine," Loki retorts tersely as he rights himself and bats the creature away. The animal snorts indignantly, its ears swiveling in all manner of directions. "You have it so easy." The roan blinks. "You think I don't know, do you? Well you're wrong."

Perhaps he should have just _stayed _a horse all those centuries ago. He hardly has the magic to conjure a flame for a candle these days. If you don't use it, you lose it. Loki wonders if Sleipnir still lives. He hopes Thanos hasn't taken him as his own mount. Loki can hardly imagine how even the eight legged miracle would hold up under that lummox's weight.

The roan will not be deterred from its incessant bothering and bumps his cheek.

"Alright." Loki finally relents. He gets to his feet with a begrudging bite in his legs, brushing the dust from the seat of his pants. He should find somewhere to water the urvine. Come to think of it, he could use some libations himself. Preferably, something mind numbing. He supposes he can strategize as they go. Unfortunately, he does not get far.

Loki is jumped by a gang of Enforcers in the adjoining alley. The roan spooks again, tearing the reigns from his hand, emitting a shrill cry, and it takes several more men to restrain it. It takes just about as many to restrain Loki. He cures and lashes out, managing to take two guards down with a kick before too many are upon him. He has not recovered enough to withstand numbers like this. They slam their steel-toed boots into the backs of his knees to bring him to the ground. They lash his arms together. One grabs his hair and yanks his head back. Loki sets his jaw defiantly because Marx stands over him like the deity of judgement. The last thing Loki feels is a swift, fierce blow to the head before the world goes black.


	6. Undertaker

**I'm severing the heart line. I'm leaving your corpse behind. Not dead, but soon to be, though I won't be the one who kills you.**

**I'll just leave that up to you.**

**~ Puscifer vs Renholder**

* * *

Groaning, Loki presses his fingertips to his throbbing forehead. He sits up with great difficulty. Sore, parched, and groggy, he surveys his new surroundings. His opposite palm sinks into the cushion of the bed beneath him. The empty room is dark, likely crafted in chrome panels, lit from below by a single snaking thin line of red tubing that outlines the floor.

Loki's disheveled black hair falls into his eyes and he combs it back. He checks himself over, registering his black vest and the same black pants. These days, he just isn't sure what to expect. He recounts the fire, the escape, and the capture. He looks down at the bedspread, brushing his fingers over the material. It has been decades since he touched something so luxurious. The room is immaculate. It makes him and his bare feet feel incredibly dirty.

Loki crosses to one of the walls, searching for a door. He places his hand on the barrier, which instantly glides aside, startling him. He stands before a gigantic transparent window spanning the entire length of the room. Beyond the glass is a shrinking image of AkoII and its three moons, quickly disappearing into the blackness of space and twinkling stars. He notices a nebula to the left, swirling with color. He is on a Harvester ship, bound for the interior. Since use of the Bifrost is forbidden to anyone but Thanos, space worthy vessels are needed to ferry the rest of his fleet to police the planets. They quickly amassed quite a collection.

Loki hears a swishing sound as the panel on the opposite side of the room slides open, framing a dark silhouette with the light from the hallway beyond.

"Ah. So you _have_ awoken," declares a familiar voice.

Loki does not bother to look. "How observant of you." He hears the steady footfalls of Marx's military boots as he crosses the room. Loki instinctively tenses. Marx is beside him now.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Loki keeps his expression carefully anesthetized, the scenery having as much effect on him as a passing breeze. "Why?"

Marx turns his head and quirks his brow, eyeing him queerly. "Why is it beautiful?"

Loki pops his jaw in annoyance. Tensely, "Why am I here?"

Marx adopts a predatory smirk. "Ah. All in good time."

They gaze out of the window for a long moment. Loki abounds with questions, but he will not give Marx the satisfaction of asking them, not yet. "You killed them."

Marx chuckles mirthlessly. "Did they mean something to you?"

Loki gazes out of the window, reflecting on each face accompanied by the unsettling image of their recent demise. The sparkling stars remind him of Rochette's bracelet. Numbly, "No."

"Good. It would not do to have you mourn." Marx angles towards him. You are welcome to take advantage of the facilities." Marx reaches up and rubs a strand of Loki's hair between his fingers. Loki smacks his hand away with the back of his hand. He never looks at him. Loki expects Marx to retaliate, but he does not. "I am certain you will feel better after a bath."

Loki does not like the casual nature of his tone. He rolls his eyes. "Where are you taking me?"

There is another long moment of silence, stacking suspension up like a tower of children's blocks. "Wherever I go."

Loki balks. He wheels around towards Marx. Any color drains from his face. "What are you saying?"

"There are privileges reserved for men of my rank. Rarities like you fall into that category."

"That's quite an elegant way of saying you're a pompous asshole," Loki's hisses. He fists his hands boldly. "I do not belong to you."

Marx smiles a cruel, contemptuous smile. "You do now."

No matter how much he does not want to, Loki is beginning to understand. "You _cannot_ keep me confined here…" he whispers, staggering backwards. He has heard stories of contracts like this. Marx means to have him endure bloodletting on a regular basis as a walking offering. Depending on how often Marx indulges, Loki could be nothing more than a doll, his lucid moments of clarity few and far between, spending the duration of his existence in a fugue of side effects – sleeping, waking, dreaming, dying… none of it will mean a thing.

"You are the last of your kind," Marx tells him. Loki slowly shakes his head, swallowing sobs as he continues to retreat. This is indeed a worst-case scenario. He inadvertently backs himself right into the waiting arms of two more Enforcers. Before he can blink, there is a sharp pain in his left ear, as though something has been stapled and weaved through the skin. Loki sets his jaw, whimpering lowly through his clenched teeth. Marx grins. "Father told me you would be difficult." Marx scans him from head to toe. "But he never told me you would be this much fun."

Something is very wrong. Loki can only gawk as he feels his magic leave him, sapped from his fingers like water from a well. "I cannot very well have you enchanting my crew, now can I?" Loki's knees nearly buckle. It is a power inhibitor. The item embedded in his ear basically renders him mortal. Loki would have sank to the floor if it hadn't been for the rough hands of the Enforcers hauling him upright. Marx continues, "This will have no effect on your blood, mind you. That would be absurdly counterproductive. It is merely a preventative tool. Fighting it is futile, though you are welcome to try."

"Commander," says a woman in uniform at the door. "The ship is in optimal position. The AMB is ready."

"Very good. Give the order."

"Yes Commander." She strides out of sight.

Marx advances, taking Loki by the jaw. "A glorious revolution is underway. Thanos means to expand his Empire far beyond the Nine Realms. He will uphold ultimate order, total jurisdiction, and cleanse the galaxy of the unclean." A splitting pain rips through Loki's skull as Marx demolishes the foremost wall around his mind, exacting the same damage it took two days of sleeping to mend. Loki resists, the muscles across his body coiling against the assault. He tries to steel himself.

Marx steps aside enough to give Loki a view of the window. The pain ebbs. Against his ear, "He will purge this universe, and the next, of the infirmed, the diseased, and the unworthy." The pain roars to life again. The secondary wall has been destroyed. Loki groans and shivers in vain. There is a blinding flash of light outside the window and a shrill whistling sound. When it fades, there is nothing. AkoII is gone, annihilated, obliterated, and wiped from the skies.

"Yet again, the sole survivor," Marx mocks. "You were my only mission on that filthy rock. And you quite literally fell right into my lap." His fingertips dig into Loki's skin. Venomously, "Thank you for your cooperation." With that, Marx razes the tertiary, and final, wall. Tears well in Loki's eyes for the pain, the vulnerability, and his own pathetic helplessness.

He has no control over what his senses interpret anymore, naked before fear, pain, and shame. His confidence and courage have been temporarily disbanded until he heals. Marx means to reduce him to a compliant pile of putty. If his psyche is conquered too often, the damage will be permanent. Loki will never be the same. It is Marx's game now. The only way for Loki to win is not to play.


	7. This Day

**This day was long enough to fit a lifetime in. The sun's down and I give up.**

**This world is wrong enough to watch a nightmare live.**

**And I hope there's tomorrow.**

**~ Hello Demons Meet Skeletons**

* * *

Ribbons of sweet scented steam curl up into the air around him.

Loki decided to take a bath not because Marx suggested it, but because he plans to milk this insufferable menace for every cent he is worth. Plus, the washroom seems to be the brightest place in the cabin. He did attempt to get some rest on the bed, but the shadows proved too much for him. He laid there, curled up with his hands balled up over his ears, telling himself it was ridiculous to be afraid of the dark at his age. Still, the terror remained.

Loki crosses his arms, squeezing with all his might as though the pressure will exorcize the demons that plague him in this wounded state. He slides deeper into the warm water, slipping it on like a safety blanket. He shifts, switching the leg he bends and the leg he straightens alternately, attempting to find a comfortable position in the porcelain tomb. For some reason, it triggers a flashback of the incident. He would occasionally shift under Marx's lead weight, unable to experience reprieve from the pain. Yet, somehow, Marx was sort of like a safety blanket too.

Loki touches his lower lip. He ghosts the pad of his finger over the skin once scabbed by Marx's teeth. Loki has to wonder, because he cannot seem to remember, if Marx kissed him that night. He shivers in spite of the hot water. "Absurd," he mutters under his breath. He is being ridiculous. All these thoughts are a symptom of his mental instability, nothing more. Loki exhales a defeated sigh and sinks until he is full submerged, expelling the last of his air in a stream of bubbles that pop softly on the surface.

* * *

Marx reclines in his high backed chair, his high booted legs stretched out comfortably. His seat overlooks the majority of the flight crew on the control deck. With his elbow braced against the sidebar and his cheek against his fist, he calls great concentration to his expression. He is preoccupied with matters that have nothing to do with his duties. He has been since launch.

"Commander?" his lieutenant's voice interrupts his thoughts.

Lowly, "What is it?"

She stands at attention. "Recent data reports indicate an imminent encounter with the insurgents if we continue on our present course."

"Finally. Some action." He sits up, regarding the woman emotionlessly. In the process of universal takeover, there will always be rebellion. "When should we expect an assault?"

"Anywhere in the next twelve to twenty four hours, sir."

Marx stands. "Then you're in charge for awhile. Man the bridge until I return."

"Sir," she acknowledges with a dutiful salute. Marx turns and strides out of the command module through the main hall.

* * *

Loki discovers fresh clothing and a bowl of what looks to be fruit on the bed. His old clothes are gone as though a maid had entered while he was bathing. The idea that nothing he does is private here is unsettling enough to make him fold his arms again. He dresses warily, mesmerized by the liquid smooth feeling of the sleepwear. Loki cannot seem to escape the color black. Then again, he prefers black. If the reoccurring color was yellow or pink, that would be a different matter entirely. The pants are long enough to bunch on the floor around his ankles, which is saying something given his height, but they fit him elsewhere. The top is some sort of short robe, sashed with a charcoal grey tie. The tapered elbow length sleeves of the robe are also cuffed in grey.

While the fruit looks appetizing, what he really wants is water. Sadly, he is too timid, which he would rather call too proud, to ask for that. The door panel whisks open. Loki stares, rooted in place, at Marx. His appetite is gone. Marx watches him too for a long, hard moment. He turns and strides purposefully across the room towards the wall next to the bathroom. The entry panel closes. A new panel slides open, revealing a closet. Marx begins to disrobe. Loki feels heat flood his face.

"What are you doing?" Loki stammers apprehensively.

"Bedding down for the night," he replies flatly.

Loki balks. "This is _your_ room?"

Marx blinks at him as though that should have been obvious. He resumes unbuttoning his uniform. "Of course. Did you think I would give _you _the best accommodations on the ship?" He scoffs spitefully.

Loki gradually turns to glance at the singular bed. To Marx, "I will not abide in the same bed as you," he chokes.

"Then you'll sleep on the floor," the commander retorts with a mirthless smile. With that, he strolls into the bathroom and slams the door. Loki cringes at the sound. He hugs himself again when he realizes that his hands are shaking. He needs to sleep in order to heal, but he will get no sleep on the unforgiving floor.

Loki lays on the side farthest from the bathroom, facing the opposite wall, listening to the shower running.

* * *

Marx stands with his hand braced against the shower wall, letting the steady stream of water beat the tension out of his shoulders. Marx closes his eyes.

_Thanos addresses him from the golden dais of the Asgardian throne. His deep voice rumbles through the great hall. Ceremoniously, "He is the key to everything. Bring him to me. With the blood of his kind, I can grow The Church exponentially. Harvesters will finally have a centralized supply of blood, manufactured by our forces." He grins manically. "I will establish a universal religion to compliment my rule… The Church of Thanos… and you will bring me its messiah. Can you do this for me, my son?"_

_Marx kneels at the foot of the dais, his fist over his heart in reverence. "Consider it done, father." He rises to leave._

"_There is one condition. Harkin closely," Thanos warns. "When you find him, you cannot drink from him. A specimen of this caliber must be preserved intact. Promise me this."_

"_I swear, sire," he promises with a dark smirk. Thanos begins to laugh triumphantly._

Thanos will never learn of his disobedience. Any witnesses have been disposed of, including the team he took with him to AkoII. They are all dead, left to roast in the wake of the Anti-Matter Beam, comprised of tainted energy from the Tesseract. Marx knows how to clean up his own mess. Loki hardly seemed like the beacon of purity to him, working in a whore house. Still, Marx could not resist the temptation to sample live Frost Giant blood for himself. And that night...

He cannot shake the bizarre images he glimpsed in the confines of Loki's mind that night. A man… A man with an uncanny resemblance to himself, smiling, laughing, exuding this perverse perpetual cheerfulness. He saw this man and Loki together, in one instance, intimately. Marx, so beset by curiosity and unholy fascination, bit into Loki 's body over and over again, in hopes to uncover more information. All he found were disjointed fragments and blurry scenes from long ago that he cannot make sense of. Stranger yet, Marx knows he has seen Loki before, in dreams of his own. Before he was even aware of Loki's existence, the shadow of the man drifted in and out of his thoughts. He feels connected to him, somehow.

His bloodlust is growing. Marx will indeed bring Loki to The Church, but he plans to take his time doing so. They have unfinished business.

* * *

Loki cannot sleep. Instead, he gazes out of the vast window into the silent void of space, nervously running his fingers through his damp hair. He combs his fingers over his scalp, the action soothing in his anxiety. It is not the fact that he is in the dark that has him so worked up. It is the fact that he is in the dark and Marx is in the next room. The presence of another being is not a comfort, not so long as it is Marx. It is as though there is a ticking, a scratching in the back of his mind. He cannot sit still. With every moment, he is closer and closer to letting himself cry. He hasn't the power to sooth himself. It is so cold here. The fact that his hair is wet and he refuses to climb under the sheets does nothing to remedy the chill either.

The door to the bathroom opens. Marx emerges, framed by what remains of the steam, toweling off his hair, clad in nothing but loose blue pants done up with a drawstring. His psychique is quite a sight. With a flick of his wrist, Marx tosses the towel onto the stationary chair situated in front of his desk. Nearly everything on a spacecraft is bolted to the floor. It makes sense in the event the ship has to make some abrupt evasive maneuvers.

As he advances, Loki's heart begins to slam against his ribcage. Marx is a step away from the opposite side of the bed when Loki springs to his feet. Marx surveys him skeptically. There is no humor in his voice when he says, "Jumpy, aren't we?"

Loki crosses his arms and averts his eyes. He cannot suppress an uneasy moan when Marx bypasses the bed and steps around the foot of it, approaching him. Loki retreats backwards until he bumps up against the wall. His insides are a writhing mess of scalding liquid. His knuckles are white from clutching so fiercely to the fabric of the robe.

"Defiant to the last, hm?" Marx taunts, using his body like a cage, slamming his hands against the wall to bracket Loki's shoulders.

Loki wants to vanish more than anything. There is an aching in Loki's head indicating the growing, invasive pressure of something foreign. "Don't," he whispers hoarsely. However, if Marxs wants to do more harm to his mind, there is literally nothing Loki can do to prevent it.

"What?" Marx asks derisively.

"_Please _don't," Loki chokes out again. He is too frightened for pride.

Marx seizes Loki by the chin with bruising force, fixing him in a wintry leer. "Then do not fight me." He raises his eyebrows harshly, obviously expecting a response. Loki reluctantly meets his eyes. He manages a broken nod.

* * *

There is nothing tender about the world turning red. The lavish bed no longer seems like a luxury. It is a chopping block. Marx has broad, calloused hands. Loki knows this better than anyone, because they are wrapped around his wrists. The brute digs his knee into his groin, holding him fast. Loki, who has no intention of struggling anyway, stares aside at the bare wall. A teardrop rolls over the bridge of his nose as Marx clamps down on his neck. In spite of the searing agony, Loki refuses to make a sound. Marx starts to probe the minute the blood touches his lips and Loki is powerless to shield himself from his prying eyes. He wonders what he is searching for. He wonders why he is searching for it.

He wonders if there is any way he could commit suicide in this room.

Marx is, in no uncertain terms, raping him of his blood. A delirious haze settles over Loki. He experiences the exchange in violent flashes, drifting in and out of consciousness. He does not remember when Marx confiscated his robe. He does not remember how many times Marx bit him. He does not know why Marx is shouting at him above the ringing in his ears. And when he finally falls into the coma that follows a feed, he doesn't know anything.

* * *

A maid on staff punches in the key on the code pad. She steps into the room, just like any other day, her arms laden with a freshly pressed uniform for the commander and a neatly folded pile of his guest's stark clothing. The panel whisks closed behind her.

"Lights please," she says. Instantly, the overhead network comes on. She places the clothing on the bureau. She means to tidy up and probably make the bed, like always. She begins humming to herself as she straightens up his desk and dusts off the stationary lamp. She pivots gracefully towards the bed. Her singing stops. Her guts ascend into her throat. Terror fills her eyes. She stares, horrorstricken, at the bloody dark haired man splayed over Marx's bed. His sheets are covered in red stains and the man is overrun with bite marks. Her jaw works, as if to scream.

Suddenly, there is a sickening sound. A shooting pain. A dagger's tip protruding from her chest. A deep voice against her ear. Nefariously, "That will be all, Selene."

Marx tosses the maid's bloody body out in the hall, right into a passing group of new cadets. Their revulsion at the corpse is evident on their faces. "Dangerous things, Frost Giants," Marx tells them. He leaves them gawking like the incapable idiots they are and heads back into his chambers, the panel whisking shut behind him.


	8. Sweet Misery

**I'm falling and I'm fading as I'm crashing to my knees.**

**All this hatred filled with pleasure, if you love me set me free.**

**And hold on, don't let me go from this sweet misery that I know.**

**~ Digital Summer**

* * *

"Who are you?" Marx asks, his ragged voice heavy with hatred and apprehension of the answer, which he will not receive any time soon. Loki lays unconscious in his bed, the linens red with dried blood. He towels off his hair, still damp from his second shower. With every swallow, he saw something new, yet familiar. His face was plastered all over this stranger's chemical signature. He begins to wonder why Thanos did not want him to partake in what Loki has to offer. He wonders if Loki is some sort of psychological magician. Yet, seeing him like this, in a state so helpless, Marx is more inclined to believe the visions are not fabricated. Afterall. Loki hasn't the flexibility to access his magic, not with the power inhibitor embedded in his flesh. His body is still Frost Giant, and endowed with greater strength and quicker healing abilities, but Loki cannot purposely direct his enchantments or tricks outwards. His magic is confined to himself, but he cannot use it.

Marx did not intend to be so brutal this time around, but something about this creature strikes a chord in him, breathing life into the most depraved monster hunkered down in the depths of his soul. There is chemistry between them, the poisonous kind, the kind virulent enough to raze entire worlds. Marx refuses to acknowledge it for what it really is, obscured through the perspective lens of his identity.

There is no such thing as love to convert.

"Commander?" prompts an overhead voice.

"Proceed."

"Scopes indicate an insurgent vessel on the horizon, advancing rapidly. It seems we are being hailed."

"I will be there momentarily." He tosses another blood stained towel down the laundry chute. He ties his hair back and dresses in full uniform, fastening the clasps of his thick red cape to the nodules on his shoulders. Before he leaves, Marx tosses a vial of regenerative serum onto the coverlet beside Loki's shoulder. He trusts Loki is smart enough to know what to do with it when he wakes. He is impressed with the immense amount of abuse this creature is able to withstand. It is inspiring, really.

* * *

Marx strides into the command module. "Bring it up," he tells his lieutenant. She prompts communications to visualize the transmission on the viewer. Marx stares into the convicting face of the figurehead leading the insurgent army. His lips twist into a satisfied smirk.

"Ah. Captain Rogers. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

The warship, America, hovers in place a small distance away. "Spare me the pleasantries," Rogers demands. "This sector is outside your jurisdiction and we have every right to intercede. You are outgunned, Commander. All weapons wait for my command. Surrender the Emblem or prepare to be boarded."

"The Emblem? Is that what they're calling it now?" Marx grins. "I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about."

"This secret weapon Thanos means to use against the free galaxy. Hand it over."

There is an anxious pause, thick with tension. "It's so quiet on your end, Captain. Perhaps you've trained your men not to breathe." Marx takes his seat and settles back, steepling his calloused fingers. "You and I both know that isn't going to happen. But if you're so curious, why don't you pop over and see it for yourself. I can give you a guided tour. Of course, that's assuming you have a crew to man your ship in the meantime." Roger's expression falters, only for a brief shadow of a second. Marx already knows. "But you don't. Do you?" Rogers steels himself, setting his teeth behind the determined line of his lips. Marx chuckles triumphantly. "Soldier of Fortune, you have outdone yourself. A suicide mission is the last thing I would have expected from you."

"I guess we'll see," Rogers states. The thread is cut. There is a jarring bump as the America skirts to starboard and locks into the docking bay.

* * *

Loki is rattled awake. The world around him is dark and foggy and frightening. He forces himself to sit up, gagging against the urge to vomit. His one track mind wants food and water. He is on the threshold of Death's doorstep. He knows it in his bones. He fumbles around, reaching for the nightstand, feeling for something – anything. He nearly loses his balance, his hand catching on the drawer handle. Inside the drawer, he discovers a syringe gun collecting dust and old rations of the highly addictive valdrenaphine.

Loki used to shoot too, to cope with his identity issues. Curiously, this drug is an Asgardian luxury, designed specifically for the Aesir. To his knowledge, it is not in circulation elsewhere. Why would Marx have this in his possession? Moreover, why would he need it, formerly or presently?

He will put reason to the find later. He has no time to think it through or consider the consequences. Loki loads the gun and injects the drug into the bend of his arm. His vision swims back into focus. Loki finds himself in a state where all his senses are amplified. The clarity is unimaginable. His body is under his control again. He can stand without shaking. He can walk without pain. However, his nose is already bleeding. He is in bad shape.

He visits the bathroom just in time to heave the lacking contents of his stomach into the sink. He fills the cup beside the faucet and polishes off several dozen swigs of water. When he is finished, Loki stares blankly at his revolting appearance. His eyes are darker than normal, wreathed in black from lack of proper rest. His hair is a disheveled mess of black strands. He looks less sophisticated somehow, less dignified… like a mistreated toy, a well used doll. He is covered with blood and bruises and crescent shaped bite marks. He feels such a surge of anger come over him that he thumps his palm into the mirror, shattering the glass. He doesn't feel the razorlike shards dig into the meat of his hand though. Valdrenaphine is quite the god-maker. He missed this sensation of invincibility. He just wishes his body reflected the same feeling. Loki goes to work scrubbing the blood off his torso. Everything Loki does not currently possess alone – confidence, strength, courage - is now synthetically implanted. He has to act quickly, because given his initial state, coming down from the dose will be akin to dying.

With water checked off the list, Loki's mind immediately selects the next task – finding Marx and beating him to a pulp. If he is going to die, he is taking Marx with him. Loki retrieves the vial of serum from the bed. He is too ashamed to let anyone see him this way. Yet, he is too impatient to let the serum take full effect before he exits the room. He rounds the corner, and collides with a body running in the opposite direction.

Bowled over on his back, Loki stares up into the face of Steve Rogers, floundering in blue eyes he knew in what feels like another life. He is simultaneously astonished and horrified, weighted down and rooted to the floor by the lead weight of his chemically enhanced, ageless figure. Roger's blond hair is shorter. Stubble dots his jaw and outlines his lips. He looks rugged and rough and ready to kill. All kindness and love have been ground out of his eyes. He, somehow, looks tired too.

Loki has no idea how to respond when Rogers glances from the fading marks on his neck into his face and says, "It's you." He does not say it as if he is recognizing Loki. He says it as though he recognizes Loki as something more, immersed in some allusive epiphany coloring the way the words rolls off his tongue. Rogers is hauled off of Loki and secured with steel bindings. Loki just barely finds his feet before there is a broad, rough hand around his wrist, twisting his arm painfully behind him. Marx has the other hand around his throat, his thumb digging into the hinge of his jaw.

"Remarkable." Into Loki's ear, "You're proving to be more useful than I thought possible." Marx sounds especially nefarious now that Loki can hear him so clearly. "What do you think, Captain? Now that you've seen this Emblem you're after?" Loki is not sure what Marx is referring to and he cannot search his face for clues in this position. Meanwhile, Steve is forced to his knees. "I am a forgiving man," Marx lies. "So, I will give you one last chance. Father would think it a shame to waste someone with your potential. Convert, or die."

"Go to Hell," Rogers growls.

Loki feels Marx grin against his ear. "Is that a no?"

"It's a never."

"Kill him."

"Wait!" Loki says suddenly. Marx tightens his grip around his throat. Loki tries to swallow. "Let me talk to him," he manages tensely. Loki cannot let Rogers die without exploiting his knowledge for whatever it is worth. Rogers knows things Loki does not, things Marx will not tell him. He can sense it. Loki has to understand in order to accurately assess his circumstances. "I can be… quite the diplomat. Perhaps, I can convince him to join you."

* * *

Rogers is secured around the wrists and ankles in metal cuffs, crafted to subdue even the gods of Asgard. Loki, dressed in appropriate daytime clothing, is goaded into the same dim room. The sliding panel whisks shut behind him.

"You're wasting your breath," Steve condemns. "I won't-"

"I am not here to convert you, you blithering idiot."

The Captain appears to be perplexed, and eyes him. "You're not one of them?" By one of them, Loki interprets he means a Harvester.

"Of course not," he spits. Rogers chuckles and shakes his head. Loki ventures a step closer, squaring his shoulders. "What happened after I was banished? I need to know what you know."

After another pause, "Thanos killed Odin and ascended to the Asgardian throne."

"I know that much!" he hisses impatiently.

Steve's shoulders sag. "Most of the Asgardians were killed or imprisoned, their minds altered, their memories replaced. Thanos spread the Harvester lifestyle with homicidal emissaries, perpetuating its values, engraining them into society. All of the Chitauri converted. The Frost Giants refused. So they started with the Frost Giants, ending them in a genocide that left the entire planet red and all of Thanos forces bloodcrazed. Then, Thanos rallied species we had never even heard of and launched an attack on Earth. Banner was the first to go, struck by some sort of cancer." He laughs mirthlessly. "Cancer. Can you believe it? Barton and Natasha died together somewhere in Brazil. Then they took Fury and sacrificed him in front of the entire world, along with the ruling forces of each nation. Our rescue went awry and Stark-"

"And Thor? What of Thor?" Loki asks, his eyes wide with urgency.

Steve looks at him through a confused veneer. "Do you not know?"

"Know what?" Loki persists, struck by a horrible sinking feeling. "Is he…?"

"Thor is alive," Steve finishes, sparing him the pain of asking about his death.

Loki is flooded with relief. "Where is he?"

Steve stares at him. "… When Thanos took over Asgard, he needed a leader, someone with a strong sense of duty and loyalty, someone who could give and follow orders and uphold the law. Someone who would never go against him or think to defy him. Naturally, he chose his son."

Marx's horrible sneer flashes through his mind. He recalls the few times Marx referred to his father. "Thanos does not have a son," Loki whispers hoarsely.

"No. He doesn't."

The awful truth hits him. Loki shakes his head. "No." He takes a step back. "No." This whole time… Everything… Every moment… Every touch… Every glance… Loki breaks apart. Marx and Thor are one in the same being. "How?" he chokes.

"Magic. Manipulation. We don't exactly know. None of us could reach him. Thor's body still lives, but the Thor we knew is gone." Loki, blindsided by shock, can hardly stand upright. "Loki, listen to me. Thanos has his galactic order. He has his police force. He is only missing one thing. He is building a unifying factor – a galactic religion, an axis around which his rule can turn. Sif is the Blood Mother, the holy priestess, the face of his congregation. His Church is centralized on what was once Earth. All he needs now is a Messiah, an Emblem, a prototype for production of a weapon that will irreversibly bind, addict, everyone to him. He sent Marx to retrieve you for a reason. I had one mission coming here. I had only one task. I failed. Now, the task falls to you." Loki cannot hope to process all of this. Clearly, Rogers came to kill Marx. "You know what you must do."

"I haven't the means to do it," he struggles to say. Not to mention he lacks the willpower.

Rogers gazes at him, long and hard. "Kiss me."

Loki balks in disgust. "What?" he snaps, stung and confused.

"Kiss me," he repeats, unabashed.

Loki glances at the camera, missing a microphone, in the corner. "They're watching," he states uncomfortably.

"I know. Consider it a last request." Loki's frigid expression is thawing. He is not sure what compels him to oblige this outrageous request, even as he crosses the floor to the wall Rogers hangs from. His eyes track uncertainly over the Captain's face. He hesitantly hovers a breath away from his lips. Rogers strains against the restraints and connects their lips. He kisses him like he means it, which feels strange and sordid in itself, especially when Loki reciprocates, a fact he would never admit to elsewhere. They kiss for a moment before Rogers passes something to Loki through their lips, something thin and square, covered with a protective layer of thin plastic.

A razorblade.

Steve speaks to him gently and calmly, warmth and kindness worming their way back into his worn face. "If you have any love for your kind, or freedom in general, you mustn't let them take you alive," Captain Rogers says, conviction burning in his eyes. Loki does not notice the swish of the door panel as he stares back into Steve's eyes.

Rogers does not mean for Loki to kill Marx at all.

He wants Loki to kill himself.


	9. Rise With Me

**Just say, tonight,**

**y****ou'll die here with me.**

**~ In This Moment**

* * *

Loki sweeps the blood from his chin, compliments of Marx splitting his lip. The wrapped razorblade is tucked safely into the pocket of his cheek. His mind is still reeling.

Marx's voice is a crescendo of malice when he speaks. He carries himself like a champion of darkness. To Rogers, "Cliché as it is to ask, have any last words before your martyr's death, valiant one? Do you wish to convert? To repent?"

Roger's heart is racing. It is a labor to speak under the circumstances. No matter how brave he acts, death scares him as readily as anyone. "Bastard," he bites. Marx sways like a panther stalking prey it has already maimed, tormenting it. His eyes flash. Rogers continues as stridently as he can, "You know who he is. You've fed from him." The statement is somehow victorious. Loki fails to understand the significance of it.

Marx makes a mocking attempt to feign innocence. "I _know _he is cursed, and not to be trusted." He bares his teeth in a lecherous grin. He tangles his fingers into Loki's hair and tosses him into a heap at Roger's feet. "He is what I make of him." Loki steels himself and groans, maneuvering out of the way, braced against the leg of the interrogation table._ Curses._ The world is starting to spin. He is coming down.

"You've seen the tru-!" But Rogers cannot finish because Marx seizes him by the throat, removing the support of his feet when he lifts him off the floor, scraping his back against the wall. Loki looks on, emotionally and physically exhausted.

"It is going to be slow and painful. It will be a knife in the shell of a citrus fruit, carefully peeling the skin away. Have you ever been fed from, Captain?" He adopts a derisive smirk. "I suppose not. One so pure, so righteous, would never dabble in that." Rogers chokes, sputtering, his boots straining against the chains to find purchase on the wall. Marx lets him down. Rogers hangs slack in the chains, coughing. Loki just wants to crawl back to the room and shoot again. There is a throbbing in his head, directly behind his eyes. This miserable lurking pressure is crushing him from the inside out.

Marx drags Loki to his feet only to drop him on the table. The jarring thud against his back makes him groan. Loki is too tired to care that Marx is digging a knee into his groin, too weak to notice that his thighs inadvertently bracket the commander's legs. He makes a feeble attempt to sit up from the compromising position. Marx's broad hands frame his shoulders when he slams his palms down on the tabletop. Loki lays back defeatedly. Thor's face swims in and out of focus. Loki does not know if that is because of the drug or his own tears. He is having trouble accepting his helplessness. He always does. The synthetic emotions are dwindling rapidly. He is so empty, hollow, and unprotected, boasting the intellectual depth of a mud puddle at this juncture.

Marx's smirk smacks of sadism. "For your tryst, I will grant you vision, immerse you in the gloriousness of a sacred execution. You shall witness his demise firsthand." Loki raises his arm as to backhand Marx across the face, but the man catches his wrist in a vice grip. Loki cannot muster the strength to struggle. His body is too heavy. Black smoky tendrils are creeping into the edges of his vision. He can sense Marx hovering at the edge of his consciousness, his hammer at the ready. "When you wake, you will see it all." The pain in his head never comes. Instead, there is a sharp sting in his neck, the fleshy pop as a needle punctures his skin, and the mechanical twang of a syringe gun.

* * *

There is no indication of how much time has passed when Loki finally does open his eyes. He is abed, in what he presumes given the redish light, is Marx's room. Their room.

His head aches, but curiously enough he does not feel completely destroyed. He feels refreshed, albeit the razorblade that is practically stuck to the inside of his cheek. His brows knit together. Loki removes the razor blade, tonguing along the tender indention it leaves behind. He discovers a syringe gun on the nightstand, loaded with a ration of violet subserocose. Crudely speaking, it is nutrition in a tube. Subserocose was designed for interstellar travel, to make more efficient use of storage and preparation space.

Marx must have injected him with one, or several, before he passed out.

There is also a water canister beside the gun, which he seizes and drains in a matter of seconds, a few swallows too late to realize it is not just water. It has a bitter, herbal tang to it. He shudders. Following this, he takes the syringe gun and injects the substance into his neck. Loki believes everything is on the up and up until he goes to find his feet, which buckle like brittle stalks of wheat under him. He curses under his breath.

Standing is a laborious process. He eventually makes it to the restroom to scrub the foul taste out of his mouth. The damage to his mind has healed. His body is not far behind either. For all intents and purposes, he is as hale now as he was on AkoII.

Loki drops the razorblade on the counter. He combs his hand back through his hair, mulling over what needs to be done. He posts his hands on the countertop and sinks down between his shoulders.

_Thor…_

Loki is not a dreamer. He is not an idealist. He is not romantic or naïve or innocent. But he remembers Thor.

He tenses in spite of himself, damning his lip for quivering. He can hardly bear the image of Thor caged, the lion of a man reduced to an exotic pet, bellowing and roaring and cursing the name of Thanos until the bitter end. Why did Odin have to send Loki away? Why did Loki then stray so far from the only thing worth looking after? Then again, what could he have done?

He wonders if there is any hope of reviving the Thor he used to know. If his former teammates could not do it, how can Loki expect to?

He stares at the razorblade. Captain Rogers' words float into his ears. Loki has no love for his kind. He has long loathed the Jotun. But he has been a prisoner for centuries, whether it was to a brother, a benefactor, a bordello, or a band of Enforcers.

What is freedom? From pain, from bondage, from shame? Is it synonymous with death? This is the time to decide. Now is the defining moment.

Loki closes the bathroom door. He unwraps the razorblade. Vertical slits would do the trick. They would. Dig deep enough, and nothing can stop the bleeding. He admires the way the light reflects off the shinning surface, his eyes narrowing appraisingly as he filters the blade through his fingers, weaves it between the digits. There is no hint of uncertainty in his face, no fear, just a sober façade. He finds a secure hold on the blunt edge.

His motion is swift and thoughtless, blood splattering across his skin.

Loki yanks the power inhibitor through the slash in his ear. He is greeted by a familiar surge of magic, tingling out from his core into his the tips of fingers.

All the sudden, he remembers precisely what freedom is.

Loki cleans the cut as best he can, cauterizing it with a searing spell. He then creates the illusion of the same device still embedded in his ear. None will be the wiser… unless they touch it. He rinses the blood off his shoulder, scours the razor blade, wraps it back up, and tucks it into an obscure corner of the bathroom, just in case he should need it later. There is no way Loki can hope to take Marx with brute force. His fight will have to be considerably more subtle, braided deep into Marx's unconscious thoughts.

Loki is a master of lies, once revered as a silver tongued soothsayer on Asgard. His time in the gutters of the galaxy has only served to sharpen his toxic talent. Loki can guard himself against Marx to an extent. If he can lure the man into a false sense of security, perhaps he can coax him into divulging a weakness. Loki's goals are two fold – avoid confrontation and stay out from under the psychological hammer. So long as his mind is intact, he is in control. Perhaps he can find Thor in Marx after all.

Loki makes sure the washroom is immaculate before he goes back to bed to lay in wait for Marx.

* * *

The panel swishes open. Loki turns his head towards the entrance. As usual, Marx does not call for lights. Their eyes meet. "You are awake," Marx says observes aloud the door slides closed. He is already unfastening his shirt. Wryly, "Right on schedule."

"How long?" Loki asks him, regarding him in a decidedly disarming manner.

Marx notices the calm inflection in his voice and leers at him before he resumes disrobing. Gruffly, "A week's time."

"I see," Loki says lowly, dumbfounded. He has never slept so long before. The bed gives under Marx's weight when he sits on the edge to remove his boots. Loki's eyes take inventory of his back. "What am I to call you?"

Marx gives the matter a moment to sink in. "Commander will do."

Loki adopts a subtle smirk. Gently, "That sounds rather formal. Even in private?"

"Our relations do not change in private."

"Don't they?"

Marx meets Loki's eyes in the darkness. He regards him incredulously. Without another word, Marx situates himself on his side of the bed, gives Loki the cold shoulder, and falls asleep. Like a fallen log or a hibernating bear, he does not move again. Meanwhile, Loki spends a restless night scheming and adjusting his priorities.

Loki needs to find a way to keep Rogers alive. He has no affections for him, but that bleeding hearted idiot's insight is valuable. So are his skills as a pilot. Loki will use him until he has fulfilled his purpose, at which point he is expendable.

Loki knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that when it comes to male creatures, the most effective means of manipulation is physical, usually sexual. However, in order to reach that point, it will take a little calculated cajoling over the next several weeks. He will do whatever it takes to distract him, thereby keeping Rogers alive one day at a time until the opportune moment to escape. He will need to garner only one thing from Marx.

Simply put, Loki is going to make Marx fall in lust with him.

He does it all the time.

Thus, Loki starts to spin his web of entrapment.


	10. Blood

**I hate you for the sacrifices you made for me.**

**I hate you for every time you ever bled for me.**

**I hate you for the way you smile when you look at me.**

**I hate you for never taking control of me.**

**I hate you for always saving me from myself.**

**I hate you for always choosing me and not someone else.**

**I hate you for always pulling me back from the edge.**

**I have you for every word you ever said.**

**~ In This Moment**

* * *

Insidious Plot – Draft 1

Time period tentative/adjustable/subject to change.

Week 1: Do harmless platonic things.

Ask great deal of questions – Did you have a productive day? What is our destination? How long before we reach it? What's on the agenda for tomorrow?

Do not complain. Thank occasionally. Assume silent, submissive facade. Show interest. Shower in evenings. (First, find way to tell time.) Give blood freely.

Lack of intellectual stimulation will be mind-numbing. Not looking forward to. Might have to talk to self.

Week 1 1/2: Tailor questions, make personal – What's on your mind? Is something troubling you? Are you quite well? Case in point, use you a lot.

Stare at. Look needy, be mysterious at same time. Give blood freely.

Wear shirt less.

Maybe give blow job. Maybe.

Week 2: Start to include self in questions. Be servile, fulfill needs. Take deep breaths. Keep calm. Swallow pride. Can I get you something? Can I do something for you? What do you need? What do you want?

Continue to look needy, but be mysterious. Give blood freely. Do not wear shirt at all.

So tedious.

Week 2 1/2: Grow ego with comments, subtleties alluding to strength, physique, dedication, status, manhood (obviously). Compliment. Questions become leading. What is it like to be a Harvester? How many people have you killed? Have you always wanted to be a Commander? If you were Emperor, what would you change? Have you taken a wife? Do you mean to take a wife?

Give blood freely.

_**Sleep with.**_

Week 3: (Ideally) Escape.

Regret nothing.

The end.

* * *

What Loki does not know and therefore cannot take into account is that Marx is already well beyond that point, and has been so for some time. It is a very thin thread that keeps his desires at bay.

Everything is very ahead of schedule and completely out of his control. He does not appreciate just how much so until later the next evening.

After a much needed shower, Loki steps into fresh pants, tempted to roll them at the hem because of their length. They are probably supposed to be worn higher, but, after his work in the Vata System, Loki is accustomed to wearing pants around his hips. Old habits are hard to break. He squeezes the lingering water in his hair into a towel. He is so preoccupied with planning his seduction, that he doesn't even hear the suite's entry panel swish open. Loki drops the towel into the sink and tugs a comb through his hair. The soap products are somewhat crude and unrefined. His hair does not appreciate it. He is starting to see why Marx chooses to wear his knotted back. Loki has only seen his hair down once since they "met". And it was only briefly.

Loki catches himself smiling, remembering twisting a braid into a tress of Thor's hair… and how the lummox protested, because it robbed him of his masculinity.

It didn't. But such was the one time Thor chose not to trust Loki. A less innocent memory follows.

There is a still, secluded pocket in a lagoon dotted with rocks. It is not hard to reach on horseback. Here, a small tributary flowing through the inner city bubbles into the sea. Loki still doesn't know how Thor finally manages to coax him into the ocean, but he does. The water is up to his ribs. Thor, whose physique makes Loki incredibly self-conscious, quite masterfully backs Loki into a boulder with his incessant splashing. He apologizes as he advances. Loki can never seem to stay angry with him, courtesy of those awful blue eyes. Suddenly, there is not room between them. Thor's hands are all over his hips and sliding lower. They're kissing. Thor is forging his way between Loki's legs. Loki seems to have misplaced his swimwear…

Loki wheels towards the bathroom door when it swings open. He drops the comb. Before he knows what is happening, Marx has him in the corner. Loki is so startled, having been immersed in that erotic memory, that his cheeks are flushed as though he has been caught doing something despicable. He swiftly braces his hands against the rampart of Marx's bare chest, who is half dressed and burrowing his fingers into Loki's thigh, and tries to push him away. Even for a man of Loki's strength, it is like trying to shove a brick wall.

This is all wrong. Loki is fine with this affair, so long as it is on his terms. But it's not. Not anymore. He hates Marx for such thievery because Marx is Thor. Yet, he permits it for the same reason.

It is hard to find his footing with how Marx caught him off guard and the pants are not making it any easier. Loki can't close his legs because of Marx's damned knee. Loki has just enough time to notice the bead of blood welling from the needle puncture before Marx noses his way under Loki's jaw, scraping his teeth over his throat.

He's using. Loki can feel it in the raw power radiating from his body.

Marx digs his hip into Loki's groin and Loki wants to die when a moan snakes out of his mouth. Because he really meant to wince, or protest, or fling a slew of curse words at him. Or something less receptive. Meanwhile, Marx is molesting him in all the right ways, pressing him into the crevice of the two walls where there is hardly room to move anyway with the latrine within reach. Loki can't argue when Marx splits his thighs wider with his other knee, commencing a slow, steady, friction inducing grind with fluid rolls of his hips. The moans come too easily. Loki can't think straight. Marx sinks his teeth into his neck. Loki's resolve dissolves as surely as the tension in his legs. He is putty in the man's hands.

As the inexorable heat swells, Loki starts to notice something terrible. There is a distinct difference between Thor and Marx, a difference he cannot get passed. Granted, it's not where it counts the most, as he can feel just fine through the tight fabric of the blonde's uniform, but it exists none the less. While it was often difficult to pry Thor's lips from his own, no matter the specifics of their dalliances, Marx will not kiss him. There is nothing but hunger in his face. That hits Loki hard, harder than he thought it would.

He is confronted with the dark side of this scenario. Where there was avid, undying love in Thor, there is no such affection in Marx. There is no trace of gentleness in his hands or the way he tears at and peels down the waistband of his pants. The horrible truth is that Loki is not dealing with Thor. He is dealing with an apex predator. And this apex predator is vividly in touch with his carnal side. The valdrenaphine is probably the worst addition he could have pitched into the volatile mix.

All the sudden, Loki hates this man. Loki hates him for what he lacks. And Loki hates him because, in truth, he is not Thor. And he hates him for the way he makes him feel and the control he sucks from his veins, and the way he can scour his waking thoughts and experiences. And he hates himself for the sounds in his throat. He feels sick and filthy. He feels defiled and guilty. He feels like he is being… unfaithful. Which is ridiculous, for a plethora of reasons!

He no longer desires to be conscious. Not for this.

What did he expect? That intimacy would be some magic cure? He knows better now, as Marx ravages his neck, shoulder, and other parts of his body. He is in serious pain and he loves it, which makes it all the worse. He inclines his chin, his head braced against the wall, in an effort to keep the tears in his eyes. He wants to say stop, but the word is just a broken, lilted moan. He rakes his fingertips into the flesh of Marx's back. The commander ruts into him relentlessly.

There is a pressure, a presence in his mind. Fresh, unadulterated fear surges through him. _Not that!_ Loki finally finds his voice. "Wait!" Marx brings the hammer down on the foremost wall. Loki grimaces, squeezing tears from his eyes. "Don't-" he quivers. Marx brings the hammer down again. Loki bares his teeth in a wince, the ropes of his neck taut. He winds his arms around Marx's shoulders, gripping with all the strength he has. Against his ear, "Don't do this to me," he implores, "Thor, no more. Please. _Please_ Thor." The presence is still there, but to Loki's shock and relief, it does not advance. It begins to fade. Tears drip down his cheeks onto Marx's shoulder, some of them lost in his hair. "I will not forsake you again," Loki promises tearfully. "I'll look after you. I won't let them touch you," he manages through clenched teeth, willing his voice to stop shaking. "Come back to me. Just come back to me."

Marx pulls out. There is a long pause, a silence that strikes even greater fear into Loki's heart – fear that he has not truly reached him and never will. As if to confirm his distress, Marx locks his hands around Loki's wrists and pries his arms off, only to spin Loki around and pin him to the wall. Loki strains and struggles in vain.

Marx knees his legs open and resumes rocking into him more ferociously than before. Marx knows precisely where to hit him. Warmth floods into Loki's cheeks. No matter how much he would rather deny himself, release finds him. Marx rams until he finishes and rides it through. The liquid heat practically scalds him from the inside. It is a stark contrast to the cold surface against Loki's cheek and chest. Loki feels Marx lean forward and grin unkindly against his ear. "You will call me… Commander." Marx sucks a finger clean. "Tomorrow is the day. Prepare yourself for a spectacle."

Loki shuts his eyes and blocks it all out, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. Marx leaves his body for good. Loki has yet to feel an emptiness like this. He hears the bathroom door slam. Loki sinks to the floor because his legs can support him no longer. His pale face, though lined with tears, is blank. He crosses his arms. He doesn't even know where to begin picking up the pieces of his shattered self. But at the moment, the razorblade tucked into the opposite corner is very tempting indeed.

* * *

**I love you for everything you ever took from me.**

**I love the way you dominate and you violate me.**

**I love you for every time you gave up on me.**

**I love you for the way you look when you lie to me.**

**I love you for never believing in what I say.**

**I love you for never once giving me my way.**

**I love you for never delivering me from pain.**

**I love you for driving me insane.**

**~ In This Moment**


	11. The Greater Good Pt 1

**Everything you do. Everywhere you go. Anything we want.**

**Anything.**

**Breathe us in slowly... slowly.**

**~ NIN vs TweakerRay**

* * *

In a special sector of Red Giant, the Enforcer ship, there is a room of some expanse with a wide dais near the back and a high ceiling. It is rather like an assembly area where the entire crew is meant to congregate when being addressed as a group. The dais at the back of the room slopes down in four steps, yawning out into a larger plateau below. There are no seats. All present are meant to stand.

Loki's clothing has been upgraded to fitted black leathers, laced up the sides, and a snug black turtleneck tank. These days, covering the neck is a statement in and of itself, something along the lines of purity. Marx's uniformed, thicker leathers are pieced together at the backs of the knees and bends of the hips with black elastic to allow mobility. Loki stands off to the side on the platform while Marx addresses the crew from the front. Rogers is bound and secured by two Astauri guards on the opposite side. The vast room is grey and thick with shadows, even when the light matrix is activated. However, in spite of the shadows, Loki notices that upwards of five crew members are acting out of sorts – feverish, sweating, fidgeting, shaking with a half maddened look in their eyes. Loki presumes it's the thrill of an approaching feed.

During the week of Loki's recuperation, Red Giant stopped off to refuel and resupply on a deepspace mining colony known as Abrava. The majority of the colonists are Harvester converts. They remained there for two days.

Marx's lieutenant also stands on the dais just to Marx's right. She is a handsome woman – a tall, pear-shaped brunette. Her long hair hangs askance in a deluge of dark spirals, albeit the left side which is buzzed to the skull. She is an Enforcer, but she is not a practicing Harvester. Blood does not agree with her.

Loki feels eyes on him. He lets his attention pan to Marx, who gestures to Loki callously. Until this point, Loki was ignoring him. Marx motions for Loki to come closer. Loki obliges, though not happily. He regards Marx scornfully. "This creature is able to endure immense torture, and remain alive. His will to live is unlike anything I have ever witnessed. Fellow Harvesters, this is a significant indication that this is the very thing we have sought for so long, that which will make Lord Thanos' reign infinite and unbeatable. I present to you our Messiah. We celebrate tonight in honor of this discovery." Now, Marx motions to Rogers and the crew erupts cruelly. Above the storm of hate, Marx continues, "Tonight, we achieve our ultimate victory." Marx closes his meaty fist to punctuate his point. "Tonight, we crush the insurgents for good, those fools out of usurp Thanos of his right to rule. Tonight, we spill his blood as a warning to all beings across every galaxy, that we will not tolerate rebellion!" They cheer wildly.

Loki meets Rogers' eyes while Marx continues his rousing speech of death and fear and power. The man is bruised, a picture of hopelessness as he hangs his head. He flashes Loki what is left of his conviction, disappointment that Loki is still alive, and Loki feels guilt slap him across the face. He steels his expression and looks away.

The guards drag Rogers to the edge of the platform, "And so, without further ado, I give him to you," Marx says, "and commit his spirit to suffer the eternal penalty for his treason. Plunge him into the fire. Drink him in that he may know pain!"

A piercing screech rises over the enthusiastic clamor, followed by a chilling shriek. The noise dies down. All eyes turn to the back corner where a lone Harvester stands over a body. It is not easy to see the full picture in the lacking light, but there is something dark and thick dripping down his chin. Someone swiftly puts him down. There is another scream closer to the stage and Loki has just enough time to see a woman rip the throat out of another crew member with her teeth. Someone draws their knife and slashes her throat. Her suspiciously black-red blood splatters onto several bystanders, soaking its way into their mouths and the pores of their shocked faces. Loki recognizes her as one of the symptomatic in question he noticed earlier. Another man to the left collapses to his knees and vomits, the strange black-red substance splashing onto the floor and the boots of his comrades. Loki's eyes begin to widen. All the crew members in direct contact with the blood begin to exhibit the same symptoms.

The assembly erupts into chaos.

Pandemonium ensues as more people go berserk. Crew members start fleeing for the doors while others kill one another for blinking wrong. Loki is shocked into an even greater stupor when Marx steps back and puts his hand out, not in front of his lieutenant, but _him_. He has seen that protective gesture before, but never from Marx.

From Thor.

Some of the infected ascend the staircase. Their sneers look more animal than human now. Marx fists his hands. His lieutenant draws her firearm from her hip, plants her feet, and starts firing, blowing holes through their faces. Some of them drop into a heap, the visceral ooze of their brains leaking from their ears. Loki fixes Marx with wide eyed horror, because Loki knows precisely who is to blame. All Marx has to do is_ look_ at any given enemy to kill them.

Marx is enormously powerful, perhaps even moreso than Thor.

Loki starts to take steps backwards. Meanwhile, Rogers' two guards toss him aside and draw their weapons to fend off the advancing horde. Loki tugs him to his feet, though not tenderly. He closes his hand around the restraints. He freezes the cuffs, rendering them brittle enough to break. Rogers is not spared the agonizing burn of the cold though. One of the maddened Harvesters tackles Marx's lieutenant to the ground. She loses her grip on her gun and it goes sliding across the floor, serendipitously bumping against Roger's foot. Once he is freed, the captain picks up the gun and the two of them make for the door.

There is an obnoxious siren blaring in time with blinking red line-lights in the halls. Someone has tripped the alarm.

"What the bloody Jotun is going on? !" Loki demands, as if it's all Rogers' fault.

"I'm not sure. But I have an idea."

"Well? !" Loki prompts impatiently.

"I'll tell you on the way," Rogers says.

Loki looks less than pleased. "Try anything foolish," such as attempt to fulfill his mission, "and I will leave you on this ship to die," he snaps. Rogers flashes a halfhearted smirk and nods. He looks exhausted. Loki conveniently leaves out the fact that he has absolutely no idea how to pilot a ship and Rogers is essential to his escape. The less he knows, the better. They dash down the hallway.

"Assuming they haven't dropped the America, and it's not infested with those things, we can make a clean getaway."

"And you can navigate us to the hanger," Loki adds wryly.

"Right," Rogers answers with less certainty. "First things first. I want my own weapons back." They find the holding cell and Roger's rusted shield and equally ancient gun. Rogers reluctantly hands of the lieutenant's gun to Loki. Clearly, they do not trust each other and rightfully so.

* * *

"Any luck with Thor?" Rogers asks as they hurry through the halls, doing their best to be stealthy and avoid passing guards. Then again, everyone is a little too panicked to pay them much mind. Loki is pitched headlong into the ugly memory of the night before. It is almost enough to make him ill.

"Just find the damned hanger," Loki says lowly, unable to keep the sorrow out of his voice. Rogers does not broach the subject again.

Eventually, they do find the docking bay where America waits. Marx was probably meaning to keep it as a trophy. However, a figure is blocking the entrance. Rogers holds his gun at the ready, aimed into the stony face of Marx's lieutenant. She has him fixed in a wintry glare, her head held high, her stance confident and poised. Though she is splattered with the black-red blood of many, she remains unaffected.

"Step aside and I will spare your life," Rogers remits, the tone in his voice bordering much too close to a plea for Loki's taste.

"Never," she states with gumption and a brief shake of her head. "I cannot let you take the Emblem." Loki's attention swings back to Rogers. It is very subtle, but Loki can tell his hands are shaking. Though his face is set in a determined scowl, his eyes are sad. Loki knows he cannot do it. Moreover, if he does, he will never forgive himself. And that all adds up to more angst than Loki wants to deal with. Loki approaches. He lays his hand on the bend of Roger's locked left elbow and gently pushes his arms down, making him lower his gun.

When Rogers turns his head and meets Loki's eyes, Loki jams the barrel of his firearm under the woman's chin, pulls the trigger, and shoots her with her own gun.

Her eyes grow unnaturally wide. She emits a short gurgling sound. Brains and blood erupt from the posterior crown of her skull, the bullet trajectory angled just so. Gore rains down on the floor behind her, splashing the wall panels and the ceiling in red splatters and splashes. She is dead before she hits the ground.

The color drains from Rogers' face. He eventually steps over her body, opens the panel, and enters his ship. Loki is about to follow when something else catches his attention. He turns his head and looks down the hall. Marx stands there, enough distance away that Loki could surely enter and lock the bay doors in time. Marx is severely wounded. Like the lieutenant, he too is splashed with sickly blood but remains unaffected from what Loki can tell. His arms are marred by savage bite marks, the same arms ready to protect him moments ago. Loki doesn't know if Marx did that on purpose or he was only acting out of duty or if the reaction was purely reflexive. It could be a number of things, but Loki cannot delete the image from his mind. Blood drips down his fingers. His clothing is torn. Those awful blue eyes stare back at Loki, strong, but uncertain - lost and alone.

Loki rolls his eyes and groans dramatically.

Because he just can't leave him here.


	12. The Greater Good Pt 2

Loki carefully coaxes Marx towards him, simultaneously advancing in cautious strides, not unlike a perspective trainer approaches a wild horse. Marx regards him coldly, but Loki can see where his eyes crease against the pain. He slips under Marx's arm and drapes it around his shoulders. The tank of a man grumbles and accepts his help begrudgingly. Eventually, Loki does get him onto the ship, through the bay doors and into a white hallway. He closes and locks the door. Rogers rounds the corner at the precise _wrong_ moment.

"What took you so-" He balks. "What is he doing here?!" Rogers barks, raising his voice to an uncannily dangerous level.

Marx tenses defensively, like he is coiling for an attack. "Is it really not obvious? Must I explain it to you?" Loki snaps.

"He – He can't be on my ship!" Rogers exclaims indignantly. "I am not harboring this monster! Most of my dearest friends died because of him!" Marx is either too weak to come to his own defense, or Loki just keeps beating him to the punch.

Loki purses his lips. Venomously, "Ah. Therefore, you'd so easily discard the only one left. Your logic is peerless."

Rogers glares. "Rescuing you was obviously a mistake."

"You did _not_ rescue me, you idiot. I rescued you! If it was not for me, you would still be in chains!"

"You would never have been able to free me, had I not given you the razorblade!"

Loki hopes Marx is not coherent enough to follow this conversation. "Had it not been for my distractions, you likely would have been dead days ago!" It is not exactly the truth, but Loki does blame a piece of his sacrifice on Rogers, on reasonable grounds or not. This stuns Rogers into silence and the fight leaves him. A tremor moves through Marx's body. He feels unnaturally cold. Loki will not be able to support his full weight, should the man fall unconscious. "Where is your infirmary?" Loki asks Rogers in a considerably less aggressive tone.

Rogers shows Loki to the medic ward. Marx manages to lay down on one of the cots. He is asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

Loki commences the search for first aid equipment. Rogers seizes his upper arm and jerks him close. "What about the whole – I can kill people with my brain thing?" he whispers harshly.

Safely out of Marx's line of vision, Loki holds up the power inhibitor, turning it between his fingers. "I've already thought of that." He smirks tartly.

Rogers suppresses a smirk of his own. "You kept it?"

"Well what was I supposed to do? If anyone found it in the rubbish, my cover would have been blown. Now _do_ unhand me." He jerks away.

* * *

Roughly an hour later, when Marx is patched up to Loki's satisfaction, Loki meanders through the halls into the command module. America is an impressive ship. It is bright and well kept, shaped much like an old shuttle, stretched to be wider and thinner, as though something sat on it. It is nowhere near the size of Red Giant, but it does have considerable firepower with two turns and at the back and guns at the front and on the wings. Rogers is in the pilot's position, seated before an overwhelming number of buttons and gadgets.

"Where are we going?" Loki inquires, coming alongside Rogers' chair.

Rogers sighs. "Well, we have a small problem." He points to one of the gages.

Loki does not like the sound of that, but to his dismay he cannot decipher what the gage is meant to measure. "… What?"

"I didn't reserve enough fuel for the return trip."

"What?" Loki repeats, irritated.

Rogers shrugs. Defensively, "I didn't think there _would_ be a return trip. No sense wasting it."

Loki rolls his eyes. "How morbid. What is the closest planet?"

Rogers does a bit of quick computer work and brings a readout up on the viewer, doubling as the main windshield. "Abrava."

"Is it inhabited?"

"Yes. I believe Red Giant stopped there to refuel, or so I heard. We left only yesterday. We can be there in about five hours at this speed."

Loki changes a smile. "Perfect. Set a course."

Rogers bides his time with his next question. "What will we use to pay them?" he mutters.

Loki's expression falls. Blankly, "What's the currency?"

"It's a mining planet. Usually, they take credits. A ship this big… That's going to be a pretty big bill."

"Don't look at me," Loki deflects, crossing his arms.

Rogers growls to himself. "They're not known to barter. It would take us years to work off a debt like that."

"Wonderful. So now we have no fuel, no money, and no supplies. Your ineptitude is legendary." They exchange glares. "Just get us to Abrava, Captain Incompetent. I'll take care of the rest." Loki has never set foot on the planet. He was unconscious for the layover. Perhaps Marx knows something that can help them. Better yet, perhaps Marx's name has weight with the people in charge. The might be able to get away with an I-owe-you, or at least a lay-away plan.

* * *

"How's your vision? Any dark spots?" Loki asks, redressing a bandage around Marx's thick wrist.

"Fine," Marx retorts. He groans. "I feel bizarre though."

Loki wonders just how ugly his reaction will be when he discovers the power inhibitor embedded in his ear. He prudently avoids the subject. "You lost a lot of blood. Rest."

"Where are we going?" Marx asks, his icy blues locked on Loki's face.

"We will be landing on Abrava shortly. This ship needs fuel."

"Are you going to leave me there?"

Loki smirks, tenderly tapping off the gauze. "… I wasn't planning on it. But that's not a bad idea. Do you still mean to hand me over to your church?"

Marx does not answer him, not directly. "I want to go where you go. I do not know why."

Loki adopts a mild smile. He ignores the sting of guilt for the subversive power inhibitor. The blond got what was coming to him. "You're delirious. You should sleep. I'm sure you'll be back to your grumpy self in no time."

Marx clenches his teeth, the muscles of his jaw kicking in protest. "How do I know you? Who am I?" They are demands disguised as questions.

Loki looks at him, shocked by this. Marx's eyes bore into him. Loki does not have the strength to tell him. He did not prepare for this. He can barely weather the emotional storm stoked by the inquiry. "You are safe, Commander. And for the moment, you are my patient." Marx frowns. He averts his eyes. "May I ask you something?" Loki says softly. Mark does not respond. Loki hollows his cheeks, tiptoeing around ways to word this. "Do you know what happened during the ceremony? I presume that was not planned." Deep trenches form in Marx's brow. He gives a subtle shake of the head. Loki can tell it troubles him greatly. "Very well." Loki stands, ready to leave him to sleep. Marx seizes his wrist. Loki looks back at him, instinctively tensing.

"Call me Marx?" Loki wonders if he meant to sound so uncharacteristically kind. He merely nods, assuming a shadow of a smile.

* * *

The America enters Abrava's atmosphere and Rogers sets her down on one of the designated landing platforms, outlined in yellow lights. This planet is one of the few mining worlds with a thin, but stable oxygen apparatus, synthetically maintained by machines as well as sparse, indigenous shrubs. Steve, Marx, and Loki descend the landing ramp and survey their surroundings. It is a dark, largely barren planet with very little sunlight, riddled with crags and cliffs. It is rich with mineral deposits deep under the surface though, namely metals. Loki imagines it must have been a lush world once. Everything looks to be in order, save for one glaring inconsistency.

"Where is everyone?" Steve asks.

Loki looks at Marx, who is able to stand on his own now. "Did you not leave here only yesterday?"

"We did," he mutters, seeming disturbed.

"Was it like this then?" Loki prompts, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

Lowly, "I – I do not believe so."

Loki's voice becomes agitated. "What do you mean you do not believe so? Didn't you get off the ship?"

"… Well, I…" Marx stammers. As a matter of fact, Marx _did_ _not _get off the ship at all. He left those tasks to his lieutenant. At that time, the fact that Loki had yet to awaken had him worried and edgy and generally unapproachable. He did not leave his side. The quiet was nearly maddening.

That is not something he will readily admit though.

To calm his nerves, Marx started using valdrenaphine after being clean for upwards of two years. Loki finally awoke. Marx returned to their room that evening from checking in with his lieutenant for the first time in days. Overwhelmed with relief and other sensations he still can't comprehend, he dosed to cope. One thing led to another and before he knew it, he was ravaging Loki's body with no clearer thought than to be with him in that way. He cannot fathom how his anxiety transcended into such lust so suddenly. Perhaps it was relief interpreted wrong. It remains one of the most liberating moments of his life unto this point, because admittedly he did covet the contact for so long. But he cannot help but wonder, after hearing the hurt and the fear in Loki's voice, if it was worth it. Moreover, will he ever encounter that opportunity again, or will he have to take it? … Can he take it?

Should he be ashamed? Remorseful? … Mollified?

Why does he crave this so desperately?

Rogers chimes in with a theory. "Maybe they all went home. It could be a holiday weekend."

"Not according to our calendar," Marx states, meaning the Harvester calendar. Loki shudders.

Steve scratches his head, his expression puzzled and reluctant. "I feel bad about taking things like this… but if no one is here, and we really need it… Do you think we should give it a day? See if anyone shows?"

"No, I don't like this place." Loki mutters, folding his arms against the cold.

Marx has other ideas. "We may as well. I have no notion how I will explain these events to Thanos when I do see him. It buys me time to think."

"Why not tell him the truth?" Roger suggests.

"And what is the truth?" Loki asks him.

* * *

They come to the mouth of the main cavity, a vast excavated cave yawning on into the darkness.

"Maybe they're all sleeping. It could be off-hours. I have no idea where the bunk house would be though. Let's canvass the place." Rogers takes point, striding inside. He stops where the shadows grow thicker. He hesitates. "Hello?" he says into the blackness. Louder, "Hello?"

Loki rolls his eyes. He wrenches a lantern from the wall and sets the flame alight with a silent spell. He pushes the device into Roger's arms, against his chest. "I wish you could hear yourself. It's really quite irritating. _Clearly_, there is no one here." Loki ventures into the darkness, a blue orb appearing above his hand, adding extra light. It is not nearly enough to illuminate the cave in its entirety, but it will have to do. "You can keep your ridiculous ideals against thievery. Meanwhile, I am going to find something to eat that hopefully does not come in a tube." The three of them press on. Rogers pauses on the way to light other lanterns on the walls. He notices that a few are broken and wonders why they do not keep this place in better repair.

"Heads up. Let's not forget this is a mining tunnel. Be on the lookout for openings in the floor."

Loki's nose is assaulted with a foul smell. He braces his hand under his nostrils to block the odor. "And since when are you the expert on quarries?" he spits.

"Well, actually-" Rogers doesn't get to finish. Boards splinter and break under Loki's feet and he falls with a splash into a pit.


	13. Chrome

**If I could change your mind, I wouldn't save you from the path you wander.**

**In desperation dreams, any soul can set you free.**

**And I still hear you scream in every breath, in every single motion.**

**Burning innocence – the fire to set you free.**

**~ VNV Nation**

* * *

While it is not a shallow drop, it is not far enough down that Loki cannot see the jagged opening above or the two faces staring down at him either, illuminated in orange lantern light. The warmth of that light means little down here. He is knee deep in what must be rancid mud. He gags. The urge to vomit nearly overwhelms him. He realizes this pit is precisely where the fetid stench is brewing. It's almost like he is back on AkoII in his withering, dilapidated bedroom with Anton sweating and lurching on top of him. It is almost that revolting. Almost.

"Are you alright?" Marx calls down.

"Yes…" Loki cringes because he sounds shaken and quickly works to collect his composure. "I'm fine. For the moment." It is mostly true. Only his ego is bruised.

"I told you," Rogers reminds him. Loki rolls his eyes. "Is there a ladder or something? Can you climb out?"

Loki lays his hand on the wall, met with a slippery, spongy mud coated with a gooey viscous residue that sticks to his hand. He cringes. "No. The walls are too slick." Loki's chest coils with apprehension when he wonders if they will simply abandon him here. After all, he has no concrete ties to either man. They do not need him like he needs them, or so he believes.

Marx curses under his breath. Always the optimist, Steve says, "We're going to go find a rope. Sit tight."

Loki can taste his relief. "Very well." He hears them start to shuffle away, taking the lantern with them. Flippantly, "I hate to rush you, but try to hurry. It's really quite filthy down here." Marx and Steve disappear, leaving Loki in the dark. Loki would rather not know what is around him, able to formulate his own theories from the stink and the soggy slop. He does not conjure the blue orb again. Instead, he folds his arms tightly across his chest. After a few minutes of silence, he mutters, "Why the blazes do _both _of you have to go? Some sort of male bonding moment?" Nervousness worms its way through his confidence. His imagination is quickly overtaking his reason. Loki rubs his bare arms. He whispers into the darkness, "How long does it take to find a damned rope in a quarry?" Loki hears a soft splash to his left. His guts ascend into his throat. He holds his breath. "… Hello?" And Rogers must ever know. Only drips answer him, echoing eerily in their solitude, as though this passage of grime extends forever, infinite in either direction. It is both a lonely sound and a warning, a warning that makes Loki suspect he might not be the only one down here in the dark.

Loki lets out a started shout when something thumps against his shoulder and rattles as it spills down his chest. "Jumpy, aren't we?" Marx asks from above, suspending a chain from his iron grasp.

"You're not the one knee deep in a cesspool at the bottom of the pit!" Loki calls back defensively, batting the links away.

"Grab ahold. We'll pull you up," Steve directs. Loki cannot imagine it would take both of them to do so. Neither man is weak and he is probably half of Marx's build on a good day. Then again, neither is at full strength. Marx, buffered by a power inhibitor, is still recovering from the blood loss and Steve is recuperating from his time as a neglected prisoner. Loki twists his end of the chain around his hand and holds the links tightly in the other. He tries to jam the toes of his boots into the wall of mud, as to scale it himself so they do not drag him over the gunk. "Disgusting," he mumbles. Loki is nearly to the lip of the pit when something seizes his ankle and yanks him back down into the dark.

* * *

At first, Steve and Marx are under the impression he simply fell. The splashing sounds of a struggle tell them differently. "Loki!" Steve shouts. Marx curses under his breath and readies himself to plunge in. Steve braces a hand on his chest. "Wait! We have no idea what that is, or how many there are!"

"I matters not. One look is all I need."

Steve blanches and casts a telling glance to the power inhibitor embedded in Marx's ear. Loki has not told him. No. Loki left it up to Steve to tell him. Brilliant. "Uh-" An uneasy Marx takes the hint and starts reaching for his ear. Meanwhile, Loki and his attacker are still thrashing in the hole. Steve immediately rounds on the pit and draws his gun, trying to get a lock on Loki's assailant.

* * *

This creature is fast and agile, striking from the shadows as though it can see in the dark. From what little Loki can see, it has two arms and two legs, thin and pale albeit the majority covered in gloppy brown. Loki delivers a punch to its face. It screeches, reels back, and attacks again. He kicks it in the gut. It grabs at him with what appear to be fingers, leaving four uneven gashes in the pectoral muscle of his chest. It shoves him back against the wall, which gives under the pressure and Loki sinks in like it's engulfing him. And in that instant, Loki catches a glimpse of its face. A shot resounds. Loki feels a new pain rip into his shoulder. Another shot. The creature shrieks and recoils. Loki is dripping in gunk now, splattered across his cheek and arms.

Loki can hear Marx shouting and cursing some ways off. Steve reels Loki out of the death trap with the chain, extending his hand to hoist him up. Loki begins to wipe the muck off when he notices a stinging in his shoulder.

His eyes widen. With a gasp, "… You shot me!" he condemns Steve, shoving him backwards. It is stronger than Loki means to push him, due to the rush still coursing through his system, but Steve hardly budges anyway.

To his credit, Steve actually looks sheepish. "I'm sorry! You were moving a lot… I couldn't get a clean shot."

"You imbecile!" Loki snatches the gun from his hand. "I'll be lucky if I survive an infection out here, let alone avoid one!"

"Well it looks like I'm not the only one that did some damage." Steve mutters, eyeing the ugly slashes in Loki's chest. He ventures a step towards him, examining the wounds. "There must be some sort of native animal in the sewage system."

Loki cringes uncomfortably at the word sewage. "No… It was human." And there's an anxiousness in his voice – an itching fear in his throat. He likes this place even less. Something feels wrong.

Rogers assumes an incredulous expression and, like a parent coddling a child, tells Loki, "That's not possible. Besides, it was dark." To give himself something to do, Steve begins to wrap the chain around his palm and elbow.

Loki wheels on him, insulted by what he is insinuating. "I know what I saw!" he exclaims, incensed.

"The conditions down there are not suitable for-!" Before Steve can finish his educated retort, something snarls, drawing their attention back to the hole where the same something is climbing onto the broken planks. Loki, alarmed, raises the gun and begins shooting at it. He fires four times. There are no bullets left in the gun. They hear a low grunt and something like a man's roar towards the wall. Marx is fending off several fiends of his own, hollering like an animal.

Loki is not particularly worried about Marx, inhibited or not. As an apex predator, Marx can fend for himself, which is what draws Loki to him like vultures to a carcass. It makes him drip with want and envy and lust and nostalgia and a gripping need that he cannot concur. Thor, Marx, whatever title that mighty being assumes, Loki needs that body and that clout to feed his own dubious intent and insatiable appetite. He is perpetually drunk off the powerhouse's very essence. This new Thor fascinates and terrifies and enrages and enthralls him.

Loki hates him for what he took, and loves him for leaving him in one piece.

Back by the pit, the creature is unblemished. "… You're a horrible shot," Steve announces, punctuating the small victory with a piteous frown. Loki purses his lips, jutting his jaw out angrily. Loki seizes the looped chain and pulls Steve close. He shoves the empty gun against Steve's chest and trades it in for the chain instead. The creature crawling out of the pit finds its feet and dashes toward Loki and Steve, who is dumbfounded by its uncanny human resemblance.

"_I told you_," Loki mimics reproachfully.

Loki angles his body and adjusts his hold to an offensive position, effortlessly sending a length of the chain into a whistling spin.

Loki admittedly does not excel in hand to hand combat, or other crude close range methods like swords and clubs. And naturally, Asgardians are not trained with firearms. Rather, Loki's strength lies in longer range weaponry. Furthermore, now that his strength and sorcery are once again at his disposal, and there is a large ball of seething anger writhing inside of his chest about a great many things, Loki is ready to let off some steam.

He does not intend to let his bloodlust overtake him. He does not intend to reduce Rogers to a petrified tangle of rigid muscles. He does not intend to go berserk and dismantle most of the creatures.

But shit happens.


	14. Trip the Darkness

**Follow me, follow me...**

**as I trip the darkness**

**one more time.**

**~ Lacuna Coil**

* * *

The fiend lunges, mouth agape, fangs bared viciously. His gnashing teeth mean to rip into either man. But, albeit being bloodcrazed, this is no mindless terror, no unintelligent adversary. This thing is a calculated, capable predator, one who must be dealt with in an equally clever manner.

Loki knows he cannot fail. And, like magic, it all comes back to him.

Laufey's son hurls the chain length forward and throws it cross-body. It slams into the ravenous creature's cheek and its head snaps askance. It misses its targets and falls, skidding across the cavern floor. It shakes itself awake and finds its feet. It faces Loki with renewed determination. There is no doubt now, seeing the beast in better light, that it is or was once human.

Steve is too horror stricken to make any immediate moves.

Loki slides his hand up the chain length. He spins it and throws again. The creature weaves aside and dodges, as Loki predicts. The chain catches the creature on the rebound. The beast stumbles. Loki yanks his hand back and the chain wraps itself around its neck on contact. Loki catches the opposite end, steels his grip, and pulls in opposite directions. The chain crushes the creature's wind pipe like fine china. Wide eyed, it gasps and gags and gurgles and claws at the links. Its own blood begins to trickle out of its mouth. Loki releases one end and snaps the other, spinning the creature and freeing the chain. The beast collapses. Loki rounds on a second and third assailant, crouching warily, but ready to pounce near the pit.

Loki's chain comes clattering down, landing with a splash into a shallow puddle below a cluster of stalactites. The creatures muster their courage and charge. Loki snaps the chain, simultaneously sending a crackling spell down the connecting links. The spell freezes the water into jagged icicles and needle sharp points. In one section, he is able to craft thin circular blades of varying sizes. He whips the chain outward. It whistles through the air. The ice blades decapitate the first creature. The frozen shards sink into skin of the second, puncturing crucial arteries. Loki wrenches the chain back, taking chunks of muscle with it. The creature shrieks.

Some of the spikes splinter and break off in the slaughter. They shatter upon the floor like thousands of diamonds. However, the deep freezing spell still adds considerable weight to the chain. So, when Loki pivots and slashes the chain through the air, it is no surprise to him when it destroys the skull of a fourth monster. The ensuing explosion of blood and brains lands with soft wet plops, liquefying like chunky batter into lumpy red sludge.

* * *

Loki reclaims the chain and whips it around, lassoing the neck of a fiend as it creeps dangerously close to Rogers. He jerks back fiercely, reeling the creature in and tacking the chain to the ground with his foot. He secures the opposite end, spins it, and lashes out, halving the beast at the waist.

There is much shrieking, a piercing feral sound that makes Steve's flesh crawl. It is a blur of butchery. In his centuries of living, he has never seen anything so disturbing. None of them reach Loki. It is as though nothing can touch him.

One of the creatures clutches an iron bar, meaning to wield it as a weapon. The tip is a treacherous cluster of jagged spikes where it was wrenched free of the piping network. Loki quickly tosses a loop around bar, which slides down to catch its wrist. Loki yanks the knot tight and uses his heel to stake the chain to the floor. He walks forward over the chain, dragging the fiend's hand and his bar down to the ground. Steve cringes when the creature inadvertently runs himself through, the tip of the bar plunging deep into his chest. Loki whips what remains of the chain rightward without looking. The chain burrows into the face of another creature with a sickening crunch. Loki whirls the chain around his head, the end sweeping the feet out from another fiend. Loki's complexion is changing, the map of an alien species snaking over his blue skin. His ruby eyes burn. Steve becomes aware of a strange, sonic hum in the air. It is unbelievably high pitched, like the scream of droves of tiny insects.

Steve has a bad feeling.

And it only gets worse when he realizes that his nose… is bleeding.

The shattered slivers of magic ice, which have yet to melt, start to levitate.

/Down,/ Steve hears, the velvety command planted deep inside his skull. Rogers, an eternal soldier, reflexively ducks flat against the cavern floor. In the process, he accidentally breaks the handheld lantern, plunging the mine into darkness. Seconds later, the shards of ice race forth, flowering out in every direction. They sink into villains lurking in the shadows. Steve can hear the faint sharp sounds of pierced flesh, ripping, and finally a crescendo of shrieks. The hellish chorus swells like a wave surging towards the shore.

And then, there is only silence.

Steve becomes intensely aware of the blood pounding in his ears and the dank earthy smell of the ground. It is so cold, the living sort of glacial cold that sticks to the bones of a person. For a moment, he is back in the missile carrier, nose diving towards the ice caps, suspended between wanting to live and resigning himself to death. Steve gradually lifts his head. A faint blue light appears, hovering above a pale blue capable hand. Loki's red eyes leer at him. Steve watches him change, assuming his pale Asgardian disguise. His hair is disheveled. The tousled look becomes him.

"On your feet," Loki says, in a reticent way that lets him know all is well. The Captain of the America obeys. And in that moment, in the darkness of that cave, Steve Rogers rediscovers serenity… and sees Loki very differently.


	15. Good Enough

**If I gave you the ocean, you would ask for the sun.**

**But if I gave you that sunlight, you would say it's not what you want.**

**And I give, and I give, and I give…**

**But I don't give up.**

**There was a time when my best was good enough.**

**~ Adelitas Way**

* * *

The three of them cautiously pick their way back to America and lock themselves into her reinforced hull. They will have to explore later, preferably when they are better armed. There is much to consider and many questions none of them can answer. They go their separate ways, needing space after such a hellish encounter, each man meaning to hunt for his own treasure. Marx is a bellowing mess, hurling curses at anything and everything. Steve keeps glancing at Loki in a markedly peculiar way. The bullet hole in Loki's shoulder is nearly healed due to the surge of magic he experienced. He feels powerful again. He feels in control. Loki reasons accepting his Frost Giant birthright is the right thing to do.

Not that he has ever had much concern for right and wrong, long bereft of a moral compass.

While scouring the ship alone, Loki serendipitously discovers Steve's personal stash of spirits, accumulated over the centuries via gifts and such. Being that alcohol does nothing to the man, it makes sense the cache would be left to gather dust, untouched, but not discarded because Steve is one who appreciates gestures like that, someone sentimental. Loki blinks, mildly impressed. It is quite the find.

Until they know what is going on in the gutters of this hellhole, Loki has forbidden Marx and Steve from partaking in any nourishment, food or water, they come across. Alcohol is not a sensible substitute, and will do much more harm than good. Unfortunately, at the moment, it seems to be their only option.

On Asgard, there was always something to celebrate. It seems like a lifetime ago. In terms of holding one's drink, Thor was unmatched. But the master of feigning the ability to hold one's drink went to Loki. On such nights, it was not uncommon for him to be ill for hours after graciously retiring. While tall, Loki never had the build of Thor or the warriors three. Liquor agreed with him to an extent, but beyond that point it turned into his worst enemy.

Say, after ten or twelve pints, whereas Thor could easily slam back eighteen to twenty.

One such night was several months before Thor's coronation. Loki remembers, while the party was dying down, stealing out the back. He had not imbibed enough to be ill, but definitely enough to know staying close to the wall was well advised.

* * *

The golden hall leading to the wings of his chambers is dimly lit with torches secured by gilded sconces. Loki nearly makes it to his room without incident.

Thor rounds the corner, dressed casually sans armor, which is not strange, being that his chambers are not far off. Loki hopes he has not come for the special tonic meant to nullify certain headaches. That is down to the dregs and he is not coherent enough to brew more. This is a very uncertain time for both princes, a time when they believe they are still brothers, still related and bound by blood… and therefore off-limits. Loki feels especially filthy for the burning, perverse, sexual way he covets Thor. Naturally, the only route to compensate is to be distant and short with him.

Loki crosses the hall to the door of his room, meaning to shut himself away with his drunken angst.

Thor has other plans. "Did you enjoy yourself tonight?" says a low, rich voice.

"Not half so much as you did," Loki jokes back wryly. "Goodnight," he says and opens his door. Loki goes to shut the door, but not before Thor's hand is braced against it.

From the other side, "I would speak with you," Thor says. It is a command, which is so like Thor to do, but he seems less austere about it than usual.

"In the morning," Loki replies, inferring he is too tired to converse this night.

"Now." There is no surrendering in Thor's radiant blues. Loki knows he will not leave until he finds what he came for. Loki steps back and lets him in. Thor enters and closes the door behind himself. He also sets the latch, which is puzzling to Loki. This must be a very grave matter.

"What troubles you?" Loki asks warily. He needs to sit down, but he refuses to do so until Thor does. It is an admission of weakness that even now, in a heavy drunken haze, he will not bequeath.

Thor sets his jaw. Their eyes meet. "A great many things." Loki groans before he can stop himself. That is never a good sign. This could go on for hours. He takes a breath to protest. "I must speak," Thor cuts him off. "I _must_ say this. Please Loki." Loki massages his temples, missing the critical hint that Thor did not refer to him as the customary "brother".

When Thor is drunk, he often tries to be philosophical and there is simply no arguing with him. Thor can be very deep and profound sober, but he does not seem to realize it. Loki often gets frustrated with the blonde's persistence. Thor cannot stay. This heavily influenced, he can only maintain his cold composure for so long. The way the firelight accentuates Thor's muscle tone is already getting to him. "What is it?" he sighs.

"Let us sit," Thor suggests. Loki wants to worship him for it. They retreat to the luxurious arm chair nearest the hearth. Thor sits on the ottoman while Loki takes the chair. Loki pushes his hand back through his short dark tresses, his cheeks warm with the mix of drink and firelight. He assumes a patient expression even though the room is starting to teeter precariously. Meanwhile, Thor's eyes scour the rug. "I think of you," he suddenly admits.

The world is suddenly thrown into sharp focus. Loki feels an even greater surge of heat flood his face. He frowns anxiously, afraid to interpret that in a way Thor does not mean. Surely, he does not mean-

"At night," Thor blurts out, shutting his eyes. Loki's eyes only grow. "I imagine. I wonder. I want things I should not." Loki's mouth falls open. Thor falters twice before he continues. "I lust after you," Thor confesses, his tone pained and ashamed. Loki is stunned, shocked speechless.

After a long, silent period, "I think you should leave," Loki whispers hoarsely. He can feel it – the swelling urge to heave every desirous word, every sordid craving for Thor onto the floor in front of them. He wants to divulge everything and in the process, destroy himself. "You are not yourself."

"But I am," Thor insists, his honest face suddenly pleading as he rounds on Loki. Thor takes his hands. They feel strangely nervous, the two broad rough strong bringers of thunder… quaking. Nevertheless, Thor holds on tightly. "Chide me. Scorn me. Ridicule me. But I beg you, send me not away." Thor gathers Loki's hands and pulls them against his chest, over his heart. He holds them in place. Warmth radiates from him. There is an immense amount of conviction in his eyes. Meanwhile, Loki's jaw works as he scrambles for the right words to respond. His eloquence has deserted him, his _silver tongue turned to lead_. Luckily, words become less and less necessary as the logs in the heart crackle and the flames sparkle in Thor's eyes.

From that day forth, things are different between them, namely in the late hours of the evening.

* * *

Loki will never forget that last long winter with him while Odin and Frigga were away, both seeing to their political agenda and vacationing in warmer climates, leaving Thor as a temporary steward to the throne. Practice, practice, practice. Of course, Thor was frequently distracted from his duties. Loki and Thor were scarcely apart. Thor was a passionate, demanding, and oftentimes cumbersome lover. His eagerness and genuine nature never failed to leave Loki helpless, floundering in the depths of Thor's inviting eyes, finding himself melting into some unseemly puddle of goo and adoration. Thor was perfection. Loki could deny him nothing. Thus, he freely gave him everything, nearly every night.

Loki's finger draws a line in a dusty bottle of cognac. He has to smirk to himself. Honestly, had Thor truly ended up with that infernal Foster woman, he probably would have ended her. Not intentionally, mind you. But Thor, like many a beast, did not know his own strength. And once aroused, he was insatiable. They had such chemistry… Opposite and tempestuous, complete together and in shambles apart. Loki loved him. Like a beach loves its ocean, allowing all manner of abuse and unpredictability, Loki _loved_ him.

Loki removes the bottle from the cabinet and pops the quark. If this shall be his final resting place, so be it.

But he is going to have his share of delights along the road to Hell, especially since he knows he is going to have to deal with the storm of the millennium from Marx very soon.


	16. The Lightning Strike Pt 1

**What if this storm ends, and I don't see you... as you are now ever again? The perfect halo of gold hair and lightning sets you off against the planet's last dance.**

**Just for a minute, the silver forked sky lit you up like a star that I will follow. But now it's found us, like I have found you. I don't want to run. Just overwhelm me. ****What if this storm ends, and leaves us nothing, except a memory, a distant echo? I want pinned down. I want unsettled. Rattle cage after cage, until my blood boils.**

**I want to see you as you are now, every single day I am living.**

**Painted in flames and peeling thunder-**

**Be the lightning in me that strikes relentless.**

**~ Snow Patrol**

* * *

Not for the first time, Marx brings his fist down on the sturdy gray panel. He fights the flashbacks and the feelings, combatting them with anger, consumed with uncertainty.

_He unwraps him as one might unfold a flower. His actions are sincere, eager, and gentle, so unlike what he is and what he knows. He watches himself – this mirror image, this foreign likeness – from a short distance away. Loki's bare skin is cool to the touch, but it hardly fazes him over the furs. Each and every one of Loki's movements is purposeful and perfect. He finds it strange that, though they are both men, they fit together like this. He takes Loki on the rug before a modest fireplace, without reluctance or reservations. On the way down, they manage to upset a chair. He recalls feelings and sounds more vividly than sights, having spent the majority of this revelry incoherent with drink, pleasure, and triumph. The world bleeds together, swirling like molten metal. They turn and trade, consumed in the exchange. But Loki is not moaning his name. He moans another name, a name that sounds chillingly familiar. /Thor…/ There is a burning in his heart, even as his claim is complete and his partner lies spent beneath him._

Marx sinks to his knees, seizing his skull between his hands, applying great pressure as if to ward away the scene. Yet, his thoughts are locked on Loki.

_/Sometimes, I am envious. But never doubt that I love you./_

It is the same voice he heard in the mine. It is the same voice he hears in his dreams. It is Loki's voice.

He sees himself again. Each recollection assembles another piece to a hero's skeleton. Marx grits his teeth against the cognitive strain. He throbs and aches, the pain mounting like an advancing avalanche.

_They pour themselves into the same bed, their surroundings awash in warm orange. Those eyes are weary, unguarded, and utterly bewitching. There is love in the way Loki traces the line of his jaw. Loki lulls him to sleep with soothing words of how he adores him and how, regardless of protocol or appropriateness, all will be well. He has never felt such solace. The flashback shifts, abruptly incorporating stark blue violent visuals from a much different encounter on Red Giant. Sweat and blood scent the air. It jars him, the disturbing contrast of color and sounds wreaking havoc with his mind. Marx can taste the memory on his tongue. /Please don't do this,/ he hears again. /I'll look after you. I won't let them touch you./ There is deep pain in his voice, once so rich with affection. /Come back to me. Just come back to me./_

His brow is beaded with sweat. His uniform is soaked through. Blood drips from his nose.

_A man. /I never wanted the throne! I only ever wanted to be your equal!/_

_A woman. /He killed 80 people in two days./_

_A man. /That guy's brain is a bag of cats. You can smell crazy on him./_

Marx wonders if they are talking about him. It makes more sense from his perspective that way. His confusion is maddening.

"What is this?" he questions through clenched teeth. Perhaps this Thor is a twin? He knows he is on the cusp of understanding something colossal. But what?

Marx hears something, like the scraping of claws. He stands and wheels around towards the ventilation shaft mounted on the wall. He listens. He hears more noises, but they sound different – like the faint pitter patter of water droplets. Outside, it is raining.

* * *

Loki wanders through the halls aimlessly, welcoming the heady sensation that comes after several bottles. All three men are a filthy mess, the rancid smell from the mine subsiding to dried mud and brine. In the interest of conserving water, they cannot afford to rinse off. Loki hears a melody coming from down the corridor. He follows. Loki pauses near the open door panel, listening to the melodious plucking of guitar strings. Someone starts singing. Several bars in, Loki knows precisely who the low, sad voice belongs to.

"_If you're reading this, and my mama's sitting there, looks like I only got a one way ticket over here. I sure wish I could give you one more kiss and war was just a game we played when we were kids. I'm laying down my gun. I'm hanging up my boots. I'm up here with God, and we're both watching over you._

_So lay me down… in that open field out on the edge of town and know my soul is where my mama always prayed that it would go. If you're reading this, I'm already home."_

Loki listens, shouldering the wall, turning an ear towards the door. His eyes drift over the floor. His expression gradually mellows out, hearing the words as they relate to Rogers and how the man sings the old song like one makes a wish. Loki wonders, to himself, if Rogers has any will left to go on living. He wonders if he secretly yearns for the death that eludes him.

"_If you're reading this halfway around the world, I won't be there to see the birth of our little girl. I hope she looks like you. I hope she fights like me… and stands up for the innocent and the weak. I'm laying down my gun. I'm hanging up my boots. Tell dad I don't regret that I followed in his shoes. _

_So lay me down in that open field out on the edge of town, and know my soul is where my mama always prayed that it would go. _

_If you're reading this, I'm already home. " _

Loki recalls the suicide mission to sabotage Red Giant and assassinate him. He realizes, silently, that Rogers was not prepared to live beyond that moment. Moreover, that is not the first time that Steve's sacrifice has failed and gone awry. Steve plunged into the fray fully expecting to perish… twice. Yet, he remains – cursed.

The sands of time continue to slip through his ageless fingers, no matter how strong and powerful his hands are. And in that moment, in the belly of the America, Loki rediscovers sincerity… sees Rogers very differently.

"_If you're reading his, there's gonna come a day when you'll move on and find someone else and that's ok. Just remember this: I'm in a better place where soldiers live in peace and angels sing Amazing Grace. _

_So lay me down in that open out on the edge of town. And know my soul is where my mama always prayed that it would go. _

_If you're reading this… _

_If you're reading this, I'm already home."_

Loki steps around the panel's edge into the room as Rogers strums the final chord. Steve looks up with a start from the edge of his bed. Loki drops his hand from the doorjam and sways, but the godly grace weaved in with every fiber of his being manages to make it work to his advantage. He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow.

"Please. Don't stop on my account," Loki pries velvetly. Steve shrugs out of the tattered guitar strap, clearly meaning to put the ancient instrument back in the faded case beside him. "Do you know anything that precludes death and sacrifice, oh morbid marauder?"

"I might," Steve mumbles, looking surly.

Loki flicks a strand of hair from his eyes. "Well." Loki seats himself in front of him, draping his elbows over his bended knees. "Go on then. Let's hear it." Steve fixes him in an incredulous glare. A subtle, gentler smirk unfolds on Loki's lips. He waits.

"Is that my brandy?" Steve asks, his accusing eyes darting to the bottle in Loki's hand.

Loki smiles shamelessly, as though he is fully entitled to any delight Steve has to offer. "It most certainly is."

"We're stranded on a deserted planet with god knows what those things in the cave are. This is no time to be drinking."

"mmm. Yet it _is _a time for singing songs," Loki jabs viciously. A fierce flush of color bursts into Steve's cheeks. He quickly averts his eyes. Loki can admit to himself that Steve fascinates him, not unlike a deer fascinates a wolf. It's obviously the liquor talking, but the man has the most amazing shoulders and the stubble on his chin and cheeks makes him look quite distinguished. Loki can draw many correlations between Thor and Steve. Marx, on the other hand, is quite opposite, like night and day. And perhaps it is the fact that Loki desires overcompensation for the manhandling done to him for the past ten decades that so draws him to kind and humble and bashful and gentle Steve. "More than likely, we will not leave this rock alive. Thus, it seems to me, that this is the ideal time to celebrate."

A strange light comes into Steve's eyes. He watches Loki as the raven haired man offers him the bottle. "No point," Steve reminds him.

Loki smirks. Wolfishly, "Ye of little faith."


	17. The Lightning Strike Pt 2

Loki awakens with a start. His sharp eyes dart around the room. It is dark, but the underlight coming from the border is enough to discern that he is inside. In fact, he is on a bed. The linens are made, pulled crisp and tight as though he hardly disturbed them in his sleep. He remembers Steve's room. He must have drank himself asleep. He combs his hand back through his hair. He glances about for Rogers, not entirely expecting to see him. The room is empty. Loki, in a fugue, stands and wanders towards the exit panel. He turns down the hall, aimlessly searching for somewhere else to bed down. Steve did not bother to assign them rooms. (Or rather, that is what he will tell someone should they ask. Honestly, he is looking for company.)

The ship's hallways are dark. His memories are foggy, emerging in disjointed fragments. He knows he should feel some sense of anxiety, but he cannot postulate as to why. Loki hears movement up ahead. Marx must be awake. He dismisses the burning questions and rounds the corner.

The kitchen, inexplicably brighter than the hall, is drenched in fresh blood, ravaged by a recent struggle. Chairs are overturned. Cabinets are open, some still swinging on their hinges. There are scratches and scuff marks and broken dishes all over the place. And Loki stands, mortified, watching _something _hunkered down in the corner and in sharp relief tear into Roger's corpse.

Loki sits up, gasping for breath, his skin moistened with sweat. His distress is answered only by a severe throbbing ache deep inside his head. His eyes dart around in the same dull darkness. He is in the same bed too, but the sheets are a disheveled mess. His panic dies when he sees a naked body beside him, strewn in blankets. Rogers, his head nestled in his arms, sleeps peacefully on his stomach.

What a nightmare…

With his bout of fear and alarm squelched, Loki's body resumes its vengeful, bitter protests. He counts at least seven bottles on the nightstand and three overturned on the floor. Loki groans as he dresses, having a mind to be half decent on the hunt for water. Only when he has left the room does he remember the shortage.

Rogers was not hard to coerce with a little help from his magic. Come to think of it, coerce might be entirely inaccurate. The man, lost to his loneliness, had not been drunk in upwards of 300 years. There was no keeping the captain's hands off after the second spell and the sixth bottle. All creatures have needs. And all things considered, Loki's were met. It was eager and inexperienced and kind and compassionate. It was healing, in a backwards sort of demented way. Being that Loki is a backwards sort of demented individual, he considers it cathartic.

Steve is unlikely to remember a thing, but Loki is just as unlikely to ever forget.

Loki can sense it is very late by the unnatural quiet of the hull. There is no humming of generators, or clicking of cooling units. He pauses when he hears a strange, oddly familiar scratching noise in the distance. After two more steps, he is met by a particularly potent dose of dejavu. His skin prickles. The apprehension snakes up into his throat again. Loki swallows, the painful dry sensation reminding him how parched he is. He proceeds down the corridor with caution. He calls a fresh supply of magic into his hands, his senses on high alert. His headache grows, but he is too preoccupied with the shuffling beyond, in the dark, to pay it much mind.

Loki is caught unawares when something yanks him into an alcove whittled d into the next corner. A broad hand clamps down over his mouth, his back pulled tight against the wall of a larger man's chest. Loki tenses reflexively, ripping around to whirl on his assailant, but his hands are too powerful. Loki knows those hands. He relaxes a little.

Loki finally catches a glimpse of Marx's face in the dim underlighting when the man's grip relents. Marx, looking disturbed with his loose blonde hair and sleepless blue eyes, the true afflictions of Loki's soul, puts his finger to his own lips. Then, he points in the direction of the kitchen. While Loki cannot see the scene from their position, he envisions the inevitable – one of those things from the mine rummaging around in the kitchen. He should have listened to his intuition and trusted his dreams.

Loki frowns, masking his anxiety with irritation. He holds up one finger and adopts a questioning expression. Marx gravely shakes his head. He holds up all five of the fingers of his left hand and one from his right. Loki stares in shock. How did so many manage to get in undetected? There is more that Marx is not saying, or rather cannot say. Loki can see it in the robust features of his face and somehow it makes him doubt his own abilities. Plus, he has no weapon. Not to mention that Loki also knows any damage to the ship could have a direct effect on their water supply and neither man is known for being cautious in a fight. Marx nods in the direction Loki came from. Loki takes the hint and together they slowly retreat back down the hall. Loki wrestles with the urge to leave Steve. In the state he is in, the man will not only be difficult to rouse but also make the perfect decoy for an escape, like bait for sharks.

However.

After having shared their experience of a few hours ago, he cannot bring himself to forsake him that way. Loki breaks from Marx and slips back into the room, quickly advancing on the bed where he left Steve slumbering. Loki freezes, his brows knitting together. The bed is empty.

Panic and rage swell and cyclone inside him. Loki turns, searching for him and finding nothing. Marx seizes him from his tailspin and pulls Loki back towards the door by the wrist. Incensed by the presumptuous action, Loki digs his heels into the floor. He will not be lead around, namely in a situation so precarious.

"We need to get off the ship," Marx hisses, using a virulent tone Loki has never heard him use. It startles him.

"Not without Rogers," he snaps back in the same harsh whisper. He scrambles for an excuse. "He owes me a debt. Several, in fact. Unhand me!"

Marx looks positively feral when he reels Loki closer, so roughly that they collide. Urgently, "Do you see this?!" Marx demands in a whispered shout, pointing to his ear and cocking his head. "You did this to me! And only you can remove it! So you're coming with me now!"

Loki has to bask in the moment. "Incompetent lummox," he sneers.

Loki's neck is swallowed up in Marx's hand. "I will kill you if need be."

"You need me," Loki bites, his hand searching for purchase in the tattered remains of the man's uniform.

"Not half so much as you need me," Marx snarls back. "Deactivate the device!"

But Loki is doubly blinded by his pride and his fear of what Marx is capable of. "No."

Marx tightens his grasp and digs his thumb into the soft pad under Loki's chin. "You-!"

Loki responds reflexively, the magic wave rolling off his body emitting the same shrill hum as it did in the cave. Loki cannot help but notice nowadays that his anger directly correlates with his power. The more fervent his rage, the greater the damage. Marx drops him when he begins to bleed from the nose. Once freed, Loki backhands him across the face. "You forget your place," he snarls in hopes to cut Marx… because at the moment, and possibly for the first time ever, Marx's place is below Loki. This new sense of control is addictive and he does not want to shelve it. It is almost like Loki's resentment of Marx (or rather what Marx did to him) has merged with his own self-loathing, matching a monster of their own – a living entity of rancor and gnashing teeth. He refuses to admit defeat, not now, not now when the balance of power is well in his favor.

Loki is reminded that now is not the time for this when he hears a ruckus in the hallway. Though it is obvious how viciously Marx wants to respond, he too gives his spite a backseat… for now.


	18. Seven Devils

**And now all your love will be exorcised, ****and we will find your sayings to be paradox.**

**And it's an even sum. It's a melody. It's a battle cry.**

**It's a symphony.**

**Seven devils all around you.**

**Seven devils in my house.**

**See, they were there when I woke up this morning, and I'll be dead before the day is done.**

**~ Florence and the Machine**

* * *

Marx and Loki know that, in their condition, they cannot hope to fight the fiends and win. Try as Loki might, he cannot find Steve in the commotion either. They cut through the cargo hold and round the corner towards the exit out of the loading bay. Something launches at Loki and forces him to veer into the wall. Loki scrambles for something to wield, his hand scraping over the wall while the creature bears its full weight on his back. Loki's hand closes around a thin piece of piping just as a pair of unforgiving fangs puncture his neck. He grimaces, grunting, and brings his hand back, driving the pipe into the creature's side. Loki is horrified when, despite that, the monster does not release him. If these things are anything like the beasts from the Red Giant, Loki knows he is done for. He witnessed firsthand what happened to those who came in direct contact with them.

Loki can feel the fiend let up and he wonders why. It is only when Marx hauls the creature back with force that Loki is freed. Loki holds his hand over his neck while Marx snaps the fiend's neck. They make eye contact briefly. Marx is quicker to scowl than Loki and Loki feels ashamed for that.

They finally emerge from the ship and dash across the terrain towards the deserted barracks skirting the mouth of the mine. Their boots splash through the mud. Loki can see shapes in the distance with each flash of lightning. He can also see nimble figures sprinting at them at alarming speeds. It is a race to the barracks and the storage safe inside. These days, most government issued projects are under contract to provide the workers with a secure supply of provisions. The metal used is most commonly Vibranium. If they can make it inside and wait them out until they both heal, they will stand a much better chance. Loki catches himself glancing around for any sign of Steve. Marx is the first one through the door. Loki immediately uses the last of his power to send an ice pulse through the air, freezing the water droplets into tiny, sharp shards. The last thing Loki hears before he too shoulders his way through the door and Marx seals it with the locking beam… is the long, lilted keening of at least a dozen humanoid creatures.

The world is suddenly still. Everything is quiet. The air is fragrant with dust and rain. Loki catches his breath.

Marx tries the lights. The overhead lamp flickers and finally stabilizes. They are surrounded by crates and jars. Loki's eyes gloss over the inventory. He is startled when Marx combs his raven hair out of the way to get a better look at the bite. Loki tenses reflexively, but since he has resigned himself to the fact that contamination is a definite possibility, he does not pull away. Marx's brows knit together. The moments tick by.

Miraculously, Loki shows no signs or symptoms of the anomaly aboard Red Giant. In fact, the wound begins to close. Marx balks. Perhaps they are merely coincidence and entirely unrelated events – freak accidents. Loki stares at the floor, contemplating what might have befallen Rogers.

As if Marx can read is mind, "He's gone." Loki fixes him in a glacial leer. Marx continues, "He is not coming back. He is done for. We are the only two left." He dares a step closer. "You must remove the device now."

Loki glances at the power inhibitor. He turns his head defiantly. Marx seizes him by the upper arm. Loki tenses again, squaring his shoulders. "Our survival depends on the both of us being in peak condition! I saved your life back there!" Marx booms. Loki gradually meets his eyes, appearing uncertain. He manages to scowl. Surprisingly, Marx drops his volume. His expression thaws. "I will protect you," he claims. "You know what I am capable of. Release me, and I will get us both off of this damned rock." Loki considers his words, knowing the solid logic behind them. After all, Marx did save his life back inside the America. Marx also waited for Loki before shutting the storage cell. Loki's eyes track over Marx's face, searching for truth behind the wet strands of blonde hair. Then again, Loki has never been a good judge of truth. He is a master of lies and all things contrived. Loki's pale fingers reach up to Marx's ear and deactivate the inhibitor. It comes off in two pieces into his palm. The minute this happens, everything changes.

Marx instantly shoves Loki up against the nearest crate, pushing his back into the bards with crushing force. The air seems thinner now, as though Marx's body has sucked all magic from it. The two pieces of the inhibitor fall to the floor, ringing against the concrete. Livid flames blaze in Marx's eyes. Loki's eyes go wide. He feels pressure in his head. "Unhand me! You said-!"

"I know precisely what I said, gutter scum, you treacherous wretch!" Marx sneers into his face. Loki winces as he smashes through the primary wall of his mind. Marx seizes his chin. "There is no promise I need to keep to a common whore. I plucked you out of the slums of that dying planet from the dregs of all occupations! You're well used leftovers at best. How dare you try to force your will upon me! I am the commander the Imperial Enforcers! A prince of Thanguard!"

"Oh," Loki sneers, burned by the betrayal and even more mortified that he did not see this coming. "Is that what they're calling it these days?" Tears well in his eyes in spite of himself.

"Silence!" Marx commands, driving a fist into Loki's gut. Loki gasps. The fight bleeds out of him. He has no strength or magic or hope left. Loki had no idea how much having Rogers around affected him, but he surely notices it in his absence. Loki drops the glacial veneer. He stares hopelessly into Marx's eyes. Marx blanches, just slightly, but his scowl comes back all the more fearsome. He tightens his grip, his hands like stone. "Stay out of my head, witch!" he bellows.

"Thor-" Loki chokes, his fingers raking over Marx's arm.

"I am Marx!" he retorts. "But you will call me Commander hence forth! Mark my words, I will get us off this rock. I will reclaim my ship! Then I will take you to the Church, where you will spend the rest of your days in a fugue of pain, suspended before the threshold of death! And no amount of your sorcery will change my mind! Your fate is written. So speaks Thanos, Emperor of the Nine Realms!"


	19. Lose it All

**You take me so far away, but I don't want to be saved by you 'cause I can't lose it all.**

**You treat my life like a game but I don't need to be saved by you 'cause I won't lose it all.**

**Won't lose it all.**

**~ Bulletproof Messenger vs TweakerRay**

* * *

The months pass. Loki's hair grows long enough to wear in a loose black braid. He can see no end to the darkness that has become his life, even in the sparse hours of faint sunlight. Loki has not been allowed to set foot outside the barracks. The fight to survive leaves him scarred, while the game between he and Marx gorges deeper wounds. It never stops. Their deranged relations worsen. The only way Loki can win a fight with Marx is not to participate – to let him win - to lie down and take it. Loki has no psychic protection, bare before the psychological war weapon. There are moments, after Marx is completely spent by whatever means, that Loki senses something inside him. Loki's attempts to kill him only result in disaster, but it is not for lack of trying. It is mainly for lack of resolve.

Marx is still Thor. Loki cannot bring himself to go through with it.

Loki pries the lid from the last crate. He tosses the plank aside, eyes fixated on the boxes full of Subserocose. He counts eight. Loki lays his hands on the lips of the crate and sinks down between his shoulders, hanging his head. They have a month left, at best. He closes his eyes, recalling the morning Marx discovered that the America was gone without a trace. With her went any hope of escape. It was the morning after Steve disappeared. There were no drag marks, no signs of dismantlement, but Loki suspects those creatures took the craft into the mine, a theory which he has shared with Marx. There are many questions left unanswered for him. He and Marx have only one goal, one mission that requires all of their energy the majority of the time – surviving. The creatures have multiplied. Loki is not sure how. It does not matter how many Marx kills. There are always more.

Loki was certain a patrol ship would have come for a status check by now…

He thinks about Rogers sometimes, but the man's memory is growing foggy. Loki is not weak enough to blame himself for his demise. Not yet.

Loki's grasp tightens, splintering the wood of the crate, when he hears the familiar sound of a fist against the barrack's door. Loki has contemplated locking Marx out so many times. He secures the lid back on the crate of supplies and crosses the barren floor to remove the beam. No sooner does Loki do this that the door swings open violently and Marx stumbles inside. Loki barely manages to catch and hold him upright, his hands supporting him under the arms. Marx's weighty firearm, discovered in the armory, comes clattering to the floor.

Fresh wounds in the man's flesh bleed profusely. The last beams of daylight are fading. These creatures do not seem to see as well under the sun, and therefore do not often venture out of the mine. Loki knows that Marx went to investigate the mine today yet again for any sign of the America. Each time, he gets farther inside. But each time, he finds nothing. From the looks of things, his journey did not bode well. Loki helps him over to a corner blanketed by severed coarse burlap sacks. He goes back and closes the door, fastens the latch rods into place, and sets the locking beam.

Rain is seldom on Abrava, but when it comes, it comes in great torrents. During such times, Loki sets out several dozen buckets and stores them. They only have two buckets left to tie them over until the next storm. He carries one bucket to Marx from the opposite corner, kneels down before him, straddling his straighter knee, and dips a fresh shred of cloth in the bucket.

Marx and Loki came upon a bizarre epiphany several weeks ago – almost simultaneously. Although Marx was exposed to direct contact with the beasts aboard Red Giant, he did not succumb to the madness. And although Loki was bitten by whatever evil lurks in the mines, he has suffered no implications either.

Marx suspects that Loki is immune, and because he drank from Loki, he inherited the same gift. It is part superstition and part science. Either way, Marx still partakes in Loki's blood as both a pleasurable passtime and a precautionary measure. One must make their own fun here. Loki's neck, without the regenerative serum, is once again a map of scars.

There are great slash marks down Marx's chest which seem to be his greatest injury. Loki dabs at the wounds, enough to clear away any dirt around the edges. Loki inadvertently jabs the tender flesh and Marx grabs his wrist.

"Heal them and be done with it," he sneers.

"And if I refuse?" Loki hisses back, dangling the threat he has used many times before. The answer is always the same.

"Then before I die, I will reduce your mind to mush. You will wander without moving, scream without cause, and never see safety again." The words fill him with dread. Loki's scowl of bitter hatred deepens.

Loki adopts a malicious expression. Lowly, punctuated with venom, "Then unhand me, so I may begin." Marx releases him and Loki jerks his arm away.

Their clothing is in shambles, but they have both managed to keep their trousers intact, albeit several holes worn in the knees and rips from encounters with the abominations outside. All things considered, Marx, because he leaves the compound on a daily basis, is much worse off. Loki lays his hand on the gashes, leaching healing magic into Marx. This is the only time Marx allows Loki to touch him. So, naturally, it is also the only time Loki has to sneak enchantments into him in tandem with the mending spells. It works for several hours – a sort of foggy stupor that envelopes the Commander which Loki can blame on the side effects of the healing. During that time, Marx's words cut less, the tension in his face relaxes, and he generally leaves Loki alone. Unlike Thor, Marx is somehow more resistant to his enchantments… as though there is a very strong barrier erected around him. Could it be a spell, someone else's spell, that made him this way?

As Loki tends to another wound, he notices the attractive slope in Marx's chest, the wide girth of his neck, and the sculpted muscles of his arms unnaturally enhanced by the Subserocose. Heat jumps into his face. A bout of self-loathing wells up within him, manifesting as a nauseating ache in his gut. Marx's constant abuse to his mind is starting to alter certain sacred memories. He is half convinced that the experience he shared with Marx and the following experience with Steve are one in the same. Everything, _everything_, is wrong.

Loki wants Thor back. He wants Thor back more than he has ever wanted anything. But Thor is so buried beneath Marx's overbearing façade. He wants Marx to need him. He wants Marx to love him. Loki's raven hair slips over his shoulder as he averts his eyes.

He forces himself to find fulfillment in the coldest hours of the night when there is nothing but the two of them and Marx's teeth are buried in his neck. He cheats his own senses by believing Marx's hands to be gentler and ignores the bruises the following day. The god of lies has no one to deceive anymore… except himself.

He wallows lower now, in these polluted times, in this dark moment, than ever before.

Loki acts before he thinks it through, before he even knows he is moving. The swift kiss he presses to Marx's lips is one of sheer desperation, a plea in and of itself, his hand hooked like steel behind his neck. Loki feels him tense. Loki feels him hesitate. Then all of a sudden Marx lifts his knee, knocking Loki off balance, digging the bend into his groin. Marx seizes him by the throat, shifts his weight, and slams Loki onto his back. Marx hovers over him, his wintry eyes boring down into his face.

And this time, Loki doesn't fight him.


	20. Save Yourself

**You're the perfect drug when it hurts like hell. I've never needed anyone so much. There is no one else I love, and I curse myself… because the right thing is to give you up. I'm overcome by shame, 'cause I can never change. And you will never understand my sickness.**

**Save yourself from a life full of lies and heart full of pain and sorrow.**

**Save yourself from the choices I make because nothing but failure follows.**

**You'll never understand my sickness.**

'**Cause I don't understand my sickness.**

**~ My Darkest Days**

* * *

Rage surges through him, determined to reclaim something that he is not certain was ever really his. All the bizarre flashbacks and disjointed scenes have made him weak. Marx is certain Loki cursed him – a magical infection meant to drive him out of his mind. But he shall not win this time.

Marx refuses to be controlled. So consumed was he in his quest for supremacy that he was blind to Loki's influence and constant presence in his thoughts.

Every move Marx made was underhandedly dictated by this witch.

Marx found Loki in a brothel, so Marx bought into the atmosphere and had a taste. Loki's body was scared from theirs as well as previous encounters, so Marx found a healing serum. Loki ran. So Marx followed. Loki wanted to go back to his old life, so Marx destroyed AkoII. In fact, Marx destroyed every single person in that hellhole to leave Loki with no one but himself to love. Loki wanted to be as far away from Marx as possible, so Marx had him bunk in his room in the same bed. Loki wanted Marx to stay out of his mind, so he invaded it every chance he got. Loki did not want Marx's claim, so Marx claimed him. Loki had his opportunity to escape, and he could have taken it.

He should have taken it.

But instead, when Marx found him, bloody and defeated, Loki opened his arms and cared for him. And just when that occurred, just when Marx was starting to buy into the idea that he could truly care for this creature, Loki had to deceive him. Loki had to take away his powers and lay with Rogers, who was not just the enemy – but the leader of the enemy. Loki had to smash his heart, his standing, and his confidence in a single blow and reduce him to a floundering, confused mess.

Even now, in the epitome of awful circumstances, Loki still manipulates and dictates and stipulates his every moment. Marx is so angry with him, nearly as angry as he is with himself. Livid. Vehement. Furious. There are no words, no words to give justice to his feelings. There is only the hot, heavy, raw pleasure of victory.

Marx refuses to lose.

* * *

Loki is numbed to his present reality, but somehow soothed by the demented notion that this alternate Thor still delights in him this way.

It's bad.

It is so immensely painful, brutal, and remorseless that Loki cannot bear to inhabit his body while Marx abuses it. Instead, he watches another memory from far away, an astral presence in a dreamlike world.

* * *

_Thor, Siff, Fandral, Hogun, and Volstagg come thundering into the courtyard. They dismount, laughing and joking garrulously about the morning's hunt. There is much excitement and anticipation this Asgardian summer day. The boisterous group so full of youth and confidence are hardly deterred by the stern glances from the stable hands and palace guards._

_"A fine day indeed!" Fandral proclaims._

_"Not as fine as our prince's aim," Volstagg booms. "Tis a wonder we could bring back the whole lot. Poor beasts." He pats the sweat slicked neck of his barrel chested charger. The horse snorts._

_"And it will be a wonder if the court can eat it all," Sif mutters, smirking playfully._

_"Ah, so long as Volstagg is present, I have no doubts!" Thor reassures them._

_Hogun claps Volstagg on the back. "How can I get a beard like that?" Volstagg adopts an oversize grin, exuding such pride in the short whispers that frame his jaw. He opens his mouth to reply, but Sif interrupts._

_"Hogun, you do not want a beard like that." They all laugh._

_Thor's smile grows when he sees his mother, resplendent in her champagne colored gown, standing under one of the archways. She beckons him towards her with a wave of her hand. "My friends, I must bid thee farewell. Until tonight."_

_"And the greatest celebration Asgard has ever known!" Volstagg replies, raising his fist._

_"Just like a prince to leave when the real work begins," Fandral teases, slinging a large boar over his shoulders to take to the kitchens. Thor shakes his head, leaves the reins of his mount in the hands of a stable hand, and jogs over to Frigga._

_"Mother," he says, taking her hands and kissing her cheeks. His blonde hair hangs in a loose braid over his left shoulder, his face free of stubble, his eyes bright as the sky._

_"My boy. Happy birthday," she says, embracing him. Thor chuckles. She pulls back and brackets his young face with her tender hands. Thor is exceptionally handsome, even in ordinary riding attire. He stands like a golden obelisk, the great lion, a formidable and beautiful force to be reckoned with by all the gods. "Eighteen…" she sighs. "Before I know it, you'll be married and dotting on some other woman."_

_"Never." Thor says playfully._

_"Nonsense. Come." Frigga smiles and takes his arms, walking with him through the gardens. "That is partially what I came to talk to you about. Will you be escorting anyone this evening?"_

_Thor blanches. He did not make any formal plans. Sif usually pretends to be his date at all celebrations where it is expected. After all, she is his closest friend. "Well, Sif-"_

_Frigga purses her lips. "Oh Thor, this year I am serious. You should be too. I love Sif dearly, you know I do. But I'm well aware of your little ruse. You'll not fool the court again. It's tradition to have a lady on your arm at a ceremony like this. Even your father is expecting you to bring someone."_

_Thor hates the thought of disappointing his parents. "I have someone I could ask," he blurts without thinking._

_"You do?" Frigga muses, quite interested, "Do I know this young lady?"_

_Thor scrambles for an answer. "Oh, I – I do not think so."_

_"Well, who is she?"_

_Thor has really gotten himself into a bind this time. "Sssss -someone I met this morning on the hunt," he announces, grinning._

_Frigga rolls her eyes. "And her name?"_

_Thor's eyes dart around. "… I do not recall," he says. Frigga turns to scold him, but Thor lays his hands on her arms and says, "You needn't worry. I will have someone, you'll see."_

_She eyes him incredulously. "Very well. I leave the matter in your capable hands. I do hope you find this maiden with no name," she teases. Thor smiles sheepishly. "Well I should go now, darling. I must see to other preparations. You should be getting ready too," Frigga says. She turns and heads towards the northern gate. Thor waves. "Oh, and don't forget, the first dance is yours!" she calls over her shoulder. "I do hope this mystery woman does not let you make a fool of yourself." Frigga waves back and leaves the gardens in a whisper of fabric through the archway._

_Thor stands like a statue, rooted in between the marigold and lace bud bushes. "Odin's good eye," he curses under his breath. Thor turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the east wing and the library._

* * *

_"Loki!" Thor calls as he bursts through the soaring painted doors._

_Loki stands in his high collared green tunic, his dark vest pressed and buttoned. The sleeves are billowed, but cuffed around the wrists. His dark trousers hug him snugly. His boots come to just above the knee. He hardly looks up. "Subtlety is a charm lost on you, isn't it?" At this juncture, Loki is sixteen and has not yet taken to religiously slicking his raven hair back. It hangs just over his ears and feathers outward._

_"Mother wants me to dance tonight!" Thor says urgently._

_"Does she?" Loki asks, leafing through a thick book with blue binding._

_Thor nods in earnest and begins to pace. "With a girl!"_

_"Imagine that," Loki replies calmly, closing the book, putting it back in the shelf, and removing another._

_Thor gestures wildly, his hands empty. "But I don't have one! And I need one by tonight!"_

_"You shouldn't worry. Any girl in the kingdom would gladly accompany you. Trust me," he concludes sourly, being privy to all sorts of gossip he does not want to hear._

_"Even so…" Thor stops pacing and looks at his big, calloused hands. "I do not know how to dance," Thor admits. His muscular physic, so deft at all things physical, is cumbersome and uncertain when it comes to the grace of music. Loki tucks the book close to his chest and faces Thor, giving him an especially skeptical frown. __"Truly," Thor insists._

_"Then perhaps you should stop shirking your classes," Loki suggests. He shrugs a shoulder, proceeding over to a glossy burgunwood table to place his newest find atop a growing stack of books. He stoops down to write the title on the parchment with a silver quill. "Just tell mother you do not know how."_

_"The truth? I cannot do that! It is tradition. Mother and father both expect me to. And I cannot get Elmador in trouble for letting me skip lessons." Loki's expression deflates, because he can tell precisely where this is going. "Just teach me the simple steps. Nothing elaborate. Just enough to get me through the first song. And then everyone will forget all about it and carry on with the party!"_

_"I have plans today," Loki dismisses, wheeling back towards his books._

_"You do not!" Thor insists. "Please, brother."_

* * *

_"We begin with a bow, after which a couple comes together." Loki grumbles dourly. "Unless you plan on taking the woman's pose," Loki quips, seizing Thor's wrist and removing his hand from his shoulder and placing it on his waist. "Like that. Now, raise your hand." Thor does. "Not that high, you witless oaf. Bend your elbow. Yes. Keep your arm aloft like that. Open your hand. Good. Then the girl lays her hand atop, like so." Loki lays his hand on top of Thor's. Thus begins their session. Loki leads him through the steps. It takes them hours, not only to get Thor familiar with a basic dance but to concoct a foolproof plan regarding Thor's missing maiden._

* * *

Marx has completely shut him out. There is no hope of Loki reaching him now – not with words, not with tears, and not with brute force. The only hope for Marx's defeat is if Thor can win from inside. Loki can sense Marx lurking just outside his mind, but he does not enter. Loki can only pray he will let him see this memory through one last time.


	21. Roxanne

**Why does my heart cry? **

**Feelings I can't fight.**

**You're free to leave me, but just don't deceive me and please, believe me when I say...**

**I love you.**

**~ Moulin Rouge**

* * *

_Outside, the sun is setting and the party is well underway. Odin calls for an early, informal toast to set the mood. The great hall is decorated with special banners, bearing the King's insignia. They flutter in the evening breeze. Everything is scrubbed, rinsed, and polished to perfection. Frigga and Odin mingle, the Queen casting occasional glances towards her eldest son, silently inquiring as to the whereabouts of his phantom maiden. She appears to be growing increasingly nervous which does nothing to buoy his confidence._

_Thor, freshly bathed and fussed over and buckled and braided and fastened, is dressed in semi-formal attire, sporting a set of light adolescent armor. It will need to be refitted, or more likely replaced when he becomes a full-fledged adult. He wears a loose red long sleeves shirt beneath it, and, much to Frigga's chagrin, his high black riding boots, folded over at the brims. His sturdy trousers are charcoal grey._

_The floor is framed by tables laden with fruit, cheese, bread, roasted meats, and sweetbuns. The minstrels play a cheery tune. More and more people arrive, nearly filling the chamber to capacity._

_Sinking twilight blankets the sky in purple, the stars twinkling on the glittering rooftops of the city outside. It is a warm night yet, a dive into paradise Clusters of youths gather over the portico, eager to bask in the romance of the balcony's atmosphere, their faces flushed with innocence and ale. Back inside, Fandral focuses on calming Thor's nerves with encouraging pats to the arm as Hogun keeps smiling at a full figured, freckled brunette. Volstagg is much too busy courting the buffet to notice anything else._

_Then, mysteriously, a collective hush falls over the golden hall. Even Fadral's eyes are fixated just above Thor's shoulder. Thor frowns curiously. He slowly pivots on his heel to face the grand stone doors yawning open into the hall. There, standing atop the carpeted entry dais with Sif at her side, is unmistakably the most striking creature Thor has ever laid eyes upon. The bustling haze leaves Thor entirely. He has never seen clearer than he has in this moment – as though gazing through a magnifying glass specially crafted for the divine. Sif's words swim back into his ears._

_Nikol._

_She has a willowy figure, accented by the fitted metal corset of silver around her torso. The material of the dress that cascades down from her hips is the darkest purple, overlaid with black mesh dusted with what must by crushed diamonds. Her transparent slitted sleeves drape down from the intricately embroidered edges, exposing snowy shoulders. She wears a modest, but radiant choker, adorned with small purple gems. There are silver and purple ribbons in her short black hair that drape down her back. There are ribbons around her wrists too. She emanates still, cold beauty, the kind that late winter brings._

_In fact, she emanates the exact same beauty… as…_

_Thor gulps dryly._

* * *

_There was a snare in their plan, a problem that was not easily remedied. As fate would have it, Thor did not feel comfortable dancing with anyone save for Loki. Thor not only knew he would forget the steps, but Loki always forgave him for stepping on his feet whereas a respectable, dainty woman… might not._

_"I cannot dance with you at your birthday ceremony Thor," Loki says, exasperated._

_Thor does not look entirely convinced. "Well, yes, but-"_

_"Can you imagine what everyone would think?" Sif reminds him sternly._

_Fandral adds, "Or the vicious gossip such scandal would entail, no thank you." Hogun frowns in turn and shakes his head vigorously in agreement._

_"No one fould fake you feriously anymo'," Volstagg adds through a mouthful of pork-bun, his short beard ornamented with glaze and crumbs._

_"Well what do you propose we do then?" Thor says. "I'm novice at best. I can hardly lead as it is."_

_"Just go with the boys and freshen up," Sif says, ushering them sternly towards the exit. "My cousin and I need to get dressed."_

_"Your cousin?" Thor balks, trying to dig his heels into the glossy tile as Fandral and Hogun hustle him out of the library. "You have no cousins!"_

_She scoffs. "Yes I do. My second cousin, Nikol. The one you will be dancing with tonight!" Before Thor can further inquire and fret, Sif shuts the doors._

* * *

_This hoax is so elaborate that Loki knows he must let Thor's immediate circle of friends in on it. Some of them might actually be helpful. Sif was much more enthused than Loki predicted to do her part. Perhaps this rowdy band is not as bad of a bunch as he originally deemed._

* * *

_Sif, stunning in blue and gold, and the second ethereal beauty descend the short staircase that spills out onto the banquet hall's floor. Sif goes to join the Warriors Three, who are gawking in an undignified stupor. Nikol's eyes never leave Thor as she practically floats across the floor. She stops before him, gazing at an incline, the flowing skirts of her dress settling around her silhouette. Her glossy, dark stained lips hint at a smile. She raises two slender black eyebrows and waits patiently while Thor stares._

_"Ahem-mm-mm," Volstagg prompts in a try-to-be-inconspicuous way to the musicians. The lyre player is the first to respond. They strike up a suitable melody. Everything comes avalanching back to Thor. He bows to her, as though he has done it a million times. She curtsies, dipping her chin. Thor advances and offers her his hand. This time, she does smile. Nikol lays her hand on top of Thor's hand… and winks._

* * *

_Loki, calling a special brand of pallor to his face, informs his chamber maid that he is feeling ill, and will not be attending the festivities until later that evening. He asks her to relay the message to his mother, and tell her not to worry. When the woman obliges and leaves, Sif, seventeen at this time, comes out of hiding. She is trying her best not to chortle._

_Together, they draw the curtains. Loki takes a vial of liquid from inside his nightstand. He lifts it up to the candlelight and swirls the settled contents until the blue and silver mix together. He unquarks the container. Sif is practically prancing in place, giddy to be participating in something so outrageous. The idea is enough to put her in hysterics._

_"What if this does not work?" she inquires._

_Loki shrugs, because it is not his head on the line. "Then it does not work." He raises the vile to his lips._

_"What if you're hideous?" Sif adds quickly, with a pointedly mischievous grin._

_Loki adopts a catty smile. "Then pity Thor." Without further ado, he drinks the potion._

* * *

_Thor brings Nikol into his arms, one hand resting on her waist and the other holding her hand aloft. She lays her unoccupied hand on his arm with strength that belies her small frame. Only then does Thor know his suspicions are correct. Nikol is Loki. He can see it in her pastel emerald eyes. And as a side, this is a completely convincing ruse, which Thor tests by casting a discrete glance over the edge of her corset. There is nothing artificial about her body. The tension leaves him. Thor begins to lead her around the floor in counts of three. He twirls her twice, brings her back, turns her halfway, and pulls her hand against his chest, their arms weaved together._

* * *

_Nikol sees to it, with barely perceptible corrections save for the pressure against his hands, that Thor executes the dance flawlessly. It would not do to blunder now. The music is getting slower. The people in Nikol's peripheral vision are becoming a molten blur. Thor leads her around the hall again in the same three step pattern. The room darkens. Nikol hardly notices. She is too preoccupied with allowing herself the luxuries of happiness, of weightlessness, of bliss and freedom._

_They step back and forward again. He spins her outward. She twirls for one turn too long. The freedom and happiness come to a head. When she staggers and stops, the world around her is pitch black and empty, save for a glaring spotlight above her head. She feels so cold._

_She hears a familiar tune, but it is not quite right, as though one of the instruments is out of tune. Loki, in full male form, dressed in his typical Managerie de Mire MC garb, turns around. He stands before an evening's audience. At first glance, everything seems normal. But he looks again. There is something grotesquely wrong with their faces – an ugly gleam in their eyes. Then, there is the twang of a high pitched violin that devolves into a scream._

_The world tips off kilter, tilting out of balance, and suddenly Loki falls into the bed in his rotting room. The lamp flickers. There are flies in the mirror. Above him looms an Astauri, the first creature to come calling for his blood. It is part man and part beast, baring curved pointed teeth in a vicious sneer. His body is large and brutish, his skin a pale green map of veins and muscle. He smells of blood and gun powder. Loki shuts his eyes. When he opens them, he is in the booth. The entire world, once again, is red and wet and warm. It is dripping, oozing, melting. Red hands grope for him, originating from some dark abyss behind the claret curtains._

* * *

Loki feels a tug, as though someone is pulling him from far away. He finds himself powerless to stop it, a glacial coldness ascending from his toes. Loki is violently yanked out of the past and back into his body, now wracked with pain. Marx, the only reminder of warmth, is still rutting into him. There is blood. His neck and shoulders sting. Loki tenses and arches against the agonizing assault. He makes a feeble attempt to push Marx away. Marx seizes his wrists and forces them back down to the coarse, cloaked ground. Loki cannot fight him, no matter how badly his back burns. Loki does not want to fight him. And it is not entirely surprising to him that, as Marx pants and grunts against his ear, Loki realizes he yearns above all else, in this moment, to die.

* * *

**Author's confession:** I wrote the ballroom scene to David Archuleta's "A Little Too Not Over You".

And I regret nothing.

This chapter actually reminds me a lot of Safety Suit, albeit the whole violent sex part. If any of you are at all interested in fem!Loki (who actually acts exactly like regular Loki) accidentally falling in love with Captain Oblivious America, you should look that up. ;] It is not dark literature. It is rather like a blockbuster action adventure movie with new villains and missions – a sequel to Avengers that is more or less appropriate for most ages. It's under my other penname.


	22. Against the Tide

**Whatever storm you're left to fight alone – remember son, you're reaping what you've sewn.**

**Under the waves, you're sinking like a stone.**

** I'm sorry son, you're reaping what you've sewn.**

**We're losing light **

**and strength of will.**

**The darkened depths, beckoning still **

**as we hold on**

**Against the Tide.**

**~ Celldweller**

* * *

Marx left some time ago. Loki did not inquire as to his destination. Instead, Loki lays on his side, facing the wall, staring beyond the monochrome panel into an emotionless void of grey. His body feels heavy, almost paralyzed, and catatonic. Any impulse to move is ignored. It does not matter that his hip bone presses uncomfortably against the floor, or that strands of hair hang in his face. He has no sense of time. He slips in and out of what must be sleep, or some other alien darkness.

There is a scratching at the door somewhere behind him, a rustling behind the Vibranium vault. Loki knows it is not Marx. Marx uses his fist. There is nothing subtle about-

_Subtlety is lost on you isn't it?_

He hears it again - the shuffling of feet, muted grunts, the primal curiosity of hungry hands. Scrapping claws.

Loki closes his empty eyes. He hopes they find a way in, silently cheering them on from the prison of his body. He lays, motionless, when he hears something like a blade against the doors – clanging, hacking, breaking. A spitting sound. The growl of the door grating against the gravel… or the feral voice of some lurching creature.

A cry. _Sir, someone's in here!_ Mumbling. Muffled, always muffled. _No. Leave this to me. Set up a perimeter._

The air swims with sounds of doom and a new herbal scent.

There's a hand on his shoulder, a strong hand. But there is nothing vicious in its grip.

"Loki," says a faraway voice. A man's voice.

Loki's eyes crack open, flooded by a vision of ghoulish daylight and pale blue mist. He sees a knee and a steel toed boot. Loki's eyes travel upwards until they find shoulders - a face. The face is vaguely familiar, gazing at him with endearing blue eyes. A strong, stubbled jaw. A furrowed brow. And for a moment, Loki thinks it is Thor. He is dreaming. It is merely a dream. Or death?

He blinks. His vision clears. No.

The insurgents have come.

"Loki?" Steve whispers, attempting to keep the horror out of his expression. It must dawn on Loki's face – the recognition, the wonder, and the disbelief. Because Steve reaches out and sweeps aside his hair. He lays his hand on his cheek. He touches his head.

He is testing for a fever.

No luck there, Loki knows. His skin is cold. It has never been anything but cold.

Will surges back into Loki's system and his body is his again. He makes to sit up. Steve steadies him, because his balance is more difficult to recall, and the pain is severe.

Steve begins to shake his head, his expression steeped with grief and guilt.

"I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have…" Loki has never seen him react this way to anything, least of all him. He must truly be a repulsive sight.

Loki catches a brief reflection of a face he does not recognize in Steve's mortified eyes. His neck and cheek are splashed with dried blood, like a fresh kill upon fallen snow. He averts his eyes because he cannot stand the sight. Steve makes to speak again, but all Loki wants him to do is _shut up_. He shifts to lift his hand to quiet him and finds it caked with blood. He stares at it, turns it over, admires his misfortune like a mere bystander. The shock numbs him. He does not feel the pain anymore and Steve is getting harder to hear.

* * *

"Prepare the infirmary!" Rogers shouts to the soldier hovering, appalled, in the entrance. "Soldier! That's an order!"

Rogers turns his attention back to Loki. "I'm so sorry," he says hastily. It all comes gushing out. He has no idea how to rouse Loki from the blank husk… the half living doll… he has become. It is eerie, as though he is staring at a ghost, a whisper, an echo. This cannot possibly be the Loki he knew months ago.

"I went to fetch the fuel canisters I spotted by the eastern compound. The creatures were aboard by the time I returned. Then you were gone. I thought - … I had no choice. You lead them away. I had to get reinforcements. It was the only… I didn't know what else…" He swallows thickly. "Loki?" Steve searched for his eyes, trying to snag his focus. "It's over now. You see this?" He says, calling hope to his expression as he swirls his hand through the dissipating indigo mist. "This is the antidote. It was a waterborn parasite from the underground wells. The parasite would destroy the Hypothalamus, disabling hunger and thirst control. But this is an antidote. This will cure any survivors and kill the parasites. I'm here to take you home. You're safe now. You're safe."

Loki remains unaffected.

Steve proceeds to explain how he inadvertently trapped one creature in the America's mess hall, enabling extensive clinical study by his medical team. "I should never have left you here with him. I should never… I'm so-" But suddenly, Loki's fingers are on his lips. Steve sees a weary kink in his colorless lips. Loki shrugs as best he can manage, the action stiff and shaky. Steve shrugs out of his uniform jacket and drapes it over Loki's shoulders. He could swear he sees Loki roll his eyes. Steve swiftly embraces him.

* * *

This man stomachs far too much responsibility for Loki's taste. He does not immediately know what to do when the man hugs him. He body tenses reflexively. He holds his breath. This feeling… What is this?

It gradually comes back to him.

Safety.

Warmth.

Kindness.

He hooks his chin over Steve's shoulder and embraces him in return. It is the single sincerest moment he can recall. He has no control over the soundless tears the stream down his cheeks and absorb in faint red flowering drops into Roger's white undershirt. Strength spreads outwards from his heart, spiddering through his body, reviving him. He holds him tighter. He is unprepared for the magnitude of this relief, pulled back from the brink of death, the cusp of giving up.

It is not a dream.

This is real.

And the nightmare is over.

* * *

Rogers eventually sees Loki to his feet, half dressed and shaky. Loki is trying his best to stand on his own, to bolster his battered pride. Rogers hopes he knows that no amount of need could alter his truest sentiments for him. It is troubling – this passion he feels.

They both agree that Loki's shirt is not worth saving, but Loki manages to fasten his trousers. As Loki winds the tie into place, another bitter truth dawns on Rogers, one he should have seen before – in the placement of the blood and the evidence of the struggle. Steve presses his lips into a line, deeply deeply disturbed. Originally, the plan was to retrieve both Loki and Marx.

But this, _this_, is making Captain Rogers, steadfast and loyal and just, have second thoughts.

Is it pity that clouds his judgment? Rogers was raised, conditioned, trained, to forgive. He is a merciful, honest man. He will always fight for truth. But recently, he also took it upon himself to fight for lies. The lies are old, and all but gone. Loki has nothing left to lie about. Loki has changed. Steve senses, feels, and sees it. It is almost as though, albeit markedly different personalities, Thor and Loki have switched places. This convoluted idea leaves him with the impression of a cloud, dark and wicked, passing from one to the other – looming, lurking. Steve thought of little else aside from Loki in his absence, in the secret solace of his most intimate mind.

_Steve's heart hammers as he noses his way under Loki's jaw, ghosting his lips over his neck. His hands travel down his sides. Loki's hands are working at his shirt. _

It was difficult at first, to admit the truth to himself.

_Steve's skin melts under the calm cold of Loki's hands on his back. They pull at him in suggestive, encouraging tugs. _

He was not drunk that night. It is impossible for him.

_His lips find Loki's mouth. He kisses him. The reflexive, fluid roll of Steve's hips, surely meant to simulate something more intense, makes the fabric of their clothing rub together. Loki sighs. _

Perhaps for slivers of moments, before his body had time to process, digest, and filter through the magic and liquid courage, but he remembers their experience vividly.

_It feels unholy, yet natural. It is the sweetest sin he has ever committed, and the only one he does not regret. The need for greater friction makes him press harder, aligning the full of his weight over Loki's center. _

Steve flushes with elation and shame. Luckily, Loki is busy. Rogers is well aware how uncouth it is to reminisce like this with the other in such a state. The chill of Loki's flesh and the beautiful pallor of his features haunts him. He knows Loki, in a way. He yearns, in a way he wishes was not as perverse, to be the eternal focus of Loki's wintry leer.

Outcast. Misfit. Misunderstood.

Steve Rogers, from the beginning, has always desired, even longed, to help Loki. Despite their past, Rogers' compassion will always triumph. It is his flaw; his curse. He will always love those who have no one – defend the helpless – cherish the downtrodden. Loki is not physically weak. Rogers knows this. It is his heart, the shriveled, small treasure chest hanging by a thread that he must save.

Friend. Lover. He would be whatever Loki has most need of. This is what he came to realize in the darkest hours of his nights away, when there is nothing to do but dream.

Rogers' hands jut out just in time to support Loki when his knees buckle. The way Loki's hand grips at his chest makes him flush again. Steve just holds him like that for a moment, util he can right himself. Loki does not look at him. Instead, he grits his teeth and flares his nostrils. Loki is a man, effeminate beautify notwithstanding. It kills him, Rogers knows, to need help like this. And it's a wonder Loki has not spit on him or shoved him away by now. He_ must_ be in dire straits.

"We have to go now," Rogers says lowly, using his most gentle voice. "A Recon team will be here tomorrow, after the antidote has taken full effect, to collect the others." Rogers hopes Loki will infer that among the "others" is surely Marx.

"Thor too?" Loki chokes in raspy whispers, and it is plain to Steve that Loki wants Marx to come with them now. Steve will not allow that.

"Yes. Tomorrow." He combs Loki's longer raven tresses behind his shoulder. "You're safe now," he adds. "It's over."

Loki manages to nod. "May I… May I stay with you?" he hears Loki ask flatly, raven hair hanging in his face. Steve is not immediately certain what he means. Loki clarifies, "May I stay with you aboard the ship?" Rogers' arms fold around him again and embrace him. "I just don't want to be alone," he admits hoarsely, as though it is the hardest thing for him to confess.

"You're not," Rogers states. "I won't let you out of my sight again."

The Captain, one arm securely around Loki's waist, helps him out of the vault and back into the daylight.

* * *

And just as quickly as salvation comes, it drowns in a wave of rage and blood.


	23. Parasitic

**"We are suffering from the mistakes they made because when the end comes, all that will be left is us."**

**~ Psyclon Nine**

* * *

Loki suppresses the urge to vomit when the fresh air, pale sunlight, and open space bombard his senses. There are people barking orders in every direction. Someone else is gawking at him. Loki averts his eyes for the shame he feels. They approach the ship, Loki needing Roger's support more than he is willing to reveal. A uniformed man stands at the top of the loading platform in the center of the entrance to the hull. His eyes are unnaturally wide. Loki's legs burn with exertion and abuse. He will not be able to stand much longer. Rogers secures his hold on Loki, as though staking some claim. "Stand down, soldier. This man is with me."

Loki lifts his head, reluctantly looking at Roger's slackjawed crew mate. A chill crawls up his spine... because he has seen eyes like that. He sees them too often. That man... That man... is not alive.

Blood starts to trickle out of the crewman's nose, ears, and eyes.

"No. He is not with you," growls a voice from behind him. The crewman is shoved aside, tumbling off the platform. He lies on the misty ground in an undignified, limp, mangled heap. Marx emerges from the shadows. Loki starts to shake his head. This cannot be happening.

"Weapons ready!" yells one of the other crew members. Several others flanking the vessel yank their guns from their holsters and aim.

"No!" Rogers hollers, too late. Marx fixates his tyrannical blues on each one in turn, driving the Hammer deep, devoid of mercy. They barely have time to scream. The blood curdling shrieks are cut short. He kills each one, their blood and brains draining in lumpy liquid puss from their ears and mouths. The body count mounts. Rogers releases Loki and surges up the platform towards Marx, his machete drawn. Loki can hardly hear anything anymore. The world swims and blurs. He wants to scream, but he's mute. Marx seizes Rogers by the wrist, breaks it, and hurls him back down the loading platform. He rolls to Loki's feet. Loki immediately kneels, rolling him over. His nose is bleeding. Rogers reaches up and touches the warmth oozing over his lips with a quaking hand. He looks at Loki in horror.

Loki finds his voice when he raises his eyes to Marx, whose eyes are frozen on Steve, awaiting the next opportune moment. "Stop this! You cannot! I'll not forgive you! I'll _never_ forgive you!" Marx ignores him. Captain Rogers meets his eyes and Marx delivers another blow. Steve cries out, muscles seizing up. He grits his teeth in a grimace, his eyes shut tightly as he covers his ears, body instinctively coiling against the assault.

"Get on board," Marx orders.

Loki shivers, sick with anger and anguish. Steve tenses and cries out again. Loki sets his jaw, tears welling in his eyes as he watches him piteously.

"Get on board," Marx commands again. The hot tears spill over when Rogers grunts in pain, on the cusp of another attack. Loki suddenly stands. He staggers forward, stepping over Rogers body and ascending the platform. He doesn't say goodbye. He just can't. Not again. Marx yanks him inside by the wrist, dragging him over the red puddles with ease, and seals the bay door. Loki tries to shove him, but only manages to find himself on the floor when Marx abruptly releases him. Marx brandishes Roger's machete at him. "You would leave without me?" he sneers. Loki cannot look at him, body quivering as silent tears fall to the floor. He wants to break down in sobs. He despises this beast for destroying him the way he has. Marx only drags him lower, deeper into a living Hell. Loki hears the machete clatter to the floor when Marx thrusts it towards him in disgust. The man turns on his heel and makes for the cockpit and the pilot's position.

Loki glances towards the bay doors. For a fleeting instant, he imagines opening it and escaping. He envisions running back to Rogers. Yet, he knows that should he attempt such an endeavor, Marx would kill Rogers… if the man is not dead already.

He will be.

Alone with those creatures on that planet, he will be.

Loki's eyes move to the machete. He gradually drags himself into a sitting position. It is as though he is no longer in control of his body. He takes the blade by the hilt. He admires it for a moment with a morbid fascination and lust that he has felt once before over the sink in Red Giant. He slowly turns the blade on himself, directing it's tip towards his stomach. He wills himself to drive the blade into his gut, but his arms do not move. His heart races. Bile rises in his throat. He shivers. Loki tosses the blade away in despair and starts to sob into his hands, his hair falling over his shoulder.

He can't.

He's too afraid.

He's too broken.

He doesn't have the courage to take his own life anymore. He wants to scream, but he does not possess the strength.

* * *

Marx stands where the hall bends, just out of sight, listening. His expression breaks, only slightly, when he hears the machete scratch over the paneling as Loki picks it up. He holds his breath. He hears it clatter to the ground again. He can hear the muffled sound of Loki's sobs. He breathes a silent sigh of relief. Tears flood his eyes. He shuts them and twists his expression into a snarl.

He storms towards the cockpit, takes the pilot's position, and punches in the coordinates for Earth and The Church of Thanos. He has all the reassurance he needs now. When he delivers Loki to Thanos and the Blood Mother, Loki will not fight them. He will not fight his fate. Marx must do this. This is his mission. He must complete it to retain his royal status and superior standing. Reputation is everything. Reputation is _everything_.

Why do these words not hold as much weight with him as they used to? Why does he long to go back to Loki and embrace him, hold him tightly, and assure him all with be well? Marx shakes himself awake and takes off, the ship sailing upwards into the starry abyss of space.

Loki is a witch. Loki is a witch that must burn. And if he does not do this quickly, Loki's spell over him will become unbreakable and Marx will do something he will forever regret. This must end, and soon.


	24. Heartworm and We the Fallen

**No hate, no love, no chance at life. The heart will worm its way inside.**

**(Heartworm) ~ Psyclon Nine**

* * *

The Fortune, in comparison with the mighty Red Giant or the warship America is a corpulent, rust covered tug boat. It is large, bulky, and candidly speaking an ugly scrap of rubbish. Clearly, it is not meant to be a commercial transport. It is nothing more than a common old cargo barge. Luckily, the term used tongue in cheek, the systems are modernized enough to have an autopilot.

Loki stands in the hygienics department under a warm deluge of water. The steam quickly fills the chamber. Months of dirt, sweat, and blood circle the drain. His skin regains its chalky color. He hooks his porcelain digits around his raven hair and tugs it over his shoulder, attempting to comb his fingers through it. His lips purse in annoyance at the tangles he finds. He'll need to find some sheers eventually. Loki freezes when he hears a faint splash behind him - the soft thud of a footstep.

Another.

Suddenly there's a warm bare broad body behind him and a hand around his throat. Loki's cheek and torso are roughly introduced to the tiled wall, which is in sore need of a scrub down.

"Would you really have left me there?" Marx growls against the shell of his ear.

Loki's fingers tense, digging into the unrelenting wall. "He said they would be back to get-"

Marx pushes against him with more force and Loki sets his jaw, going silent. "You'll be spending the remainder of our little excursion making it up to me." Marx's free hand is reacquainting itself with Loki's thigh and buttocks. He squeezes hard and Loki hates that his own desires are stirring. It's like he's an addict. Marx's thick, calloused fingers worm up from Loki's neck to the supple skin of his lower lip. His instinctual desire to immediately oblige makes him sick.

"Do it," Marx snarls against his ear. Loki closes his eyes and opens his mouth. Marx glides two fingers between his lips. Loki starts to suck on them, coating them in warm saliva. Marx pushes them in deeper and Loki suppresses the urge to gag. Meanwhile, he can feel Marx reacting, the enormous evidence pressed tight against the seam of his back end. When Marx is satisfied, he removes his fingers. There's a knee between Loki's thighs, forcing his legs open wider. Loki cringes slightly when he feels Marx insert his wet fingers. He tenses.

"You will never leave me," Marx sneers against his ear. Loki trembles. "Say it," he hisses. Loki does not respond instantly and Marks digs his digits in deeper. "Say it!"

"I will never leave you."

Marx inserts a third finger. Loki shudders, emitting something between a moan and a whimper. "Like you _mean_ it," Marx growls.

Loki squeezes his eyes shut, ignoring the single bitter tear that sneaks out of the corner. "I will _never_ leave you." He feels Marx grin against his ear. He starts pumping his fingers into him. Loki groans, fighting his own sordid cravings.

"Enjoy this, witch," Marx advises. Lowly, "I'll even let you call me Thor."

Loki's eyes snap open in horror. There's an unacknowledged sob inside his chest and it hangs from his throat like a lead weight.

* * *

**Blackened earth in eternal dusk. Oh yes, father. For you I'll have this world on its knees.**

**Oh yes father, for you I'll spread their legs like disease.**

** (We the Fallen)~ Psyclon Nine**

A young man in white leathers stands over the navigation panel. There's a glowing blip on the digital readout. Captain Jinx makes her entrance into the cockpit, alerted by the synthe-system of an approaching ship. Her hair hangs in thick matted dreadlocks, the cords done in an array of colors and beads. She wears a scarf as a headband. There's a rainbow of piercings over both her eyebrows. Her outfit leaves her little room to breathe: impious leathers fastened so tightly that her breasts bulge from the low brim, threatening to spill over. She and her eclectic crew rule these outlands, plundering unsuspecting ships that dare venture this far into the frontier.

"Sharp." She fixes her pilot, drunk asleep, in a steely glare. Her expression smacks of disgust. Jinx storms over. "Sharp, wake up you bungling bilge-rat!" She shoves the heel of her platformed boot against his chair.

"Hrm?" He coughs in the midst of a snore, dragging a wrist over his coarse nest of whiskers to wipe away the drool. His bald head is tattooed with several constellations. He sits up, turning his chair back towards the control panel.

Jinx strolls back to her chair and drops into it, languidly kicking her leg up over the opposite knee. "Get me a visual. Main screen." Sharp brings the display up on the monitor. "Enhance," she commands. He twists a knob. The visual zooms in, clarifies, and re-clarifies. "Huh," she muses. "Isn't that the Fortune?"

"Scanners seem to be familiar with it, mum'." Sharp mumbles through his beard.

She snickers. "I thought so. Well well well. Captain Rogers doesn't usually pay us a visit until the meteor storm season passes." Her black lips ease into a crooked smirk. She starts to click her talon-like fingernails on the armrest. "Bring us about, Sharp. Let's say hello."

"Aye." Sharp smirks, acknowledging with a nod. He takes the yoke and tears their vessel, the Inferno, away from its perch on a lone asteroid. He flips it backwards, belly up, and twists the yoke to right the aircraft. The stabilizers manipulate the ship's center of gravity, keeping the crew from tumbling out of their seats. He activates the thrusters and they begin their gradual advance.

* * *

Fresh swirls of red circle the drain. Loki has no idea whether they come from his neck, elsewhere or both. His body is a livewire, so aroused and longing, that he cannot think straight. His body is working independently of his mind. Marx is insatiable, his stamina unparalleled. Loki cannot recount how many times release has rocketed through him. He can barely stand. Marx mercilessly ruts into him and Loki cannot believe how well he suddenly knows his body. Marx knows precisely where to touch and tease. There's no exploring. It is all deliberate. It's as if…

* * *

"Seth, dearie," Jinx oozes in her most saccharine voice. The young man, who can be no older than eighteen, turns from the forward monitor to face her. Seth's hair is long and white, coiled over his shoulder in what might be a loose braid. His bangs are long enough to put slashes through his vision. His eyes are vivid green and appear to be multi-faceted around the iris… like jewels. He is a rare treasure indeed, one she snatched up at her earliest convenience. "Man the shields, would you luv?" She winks.

He bows his head to her, taking the seat at the generator controls. He wears a vest, riddled with buckles and straps for knives and guns, to keep his arms free. Blue tattoos in the shape of vines and swirls snake over the sculpted limbs. The neckline of his vest plunges low enough to reveal matching tattoos on his sculpted chest. A cluster of small blue stars snake down his neck and speckle his back, following his spine in shallow waves.

"Cybil, the munitions," Jinx prompts a stalky woman with short black hair. She takes her post at the turn, adjusting the guns accordingly.

"How long before we intercept the Fortune, Sharp?" Captain Jinx asks. Other crew members, intrigued by the situation, trickle into the pit.

"An hour, if that," Sharp says.

"Excellent." They have to be careful in this quadrant with the rogue meteors. Maintaining a certain speed to avoid a collision is crucial.

And Jinx… she can wait.

* * *

Loki does not recall exactly when he surrendered to it. He started calling Marx Thor some time ago. They have moved from the hygenics unit to the adjoining sleeping quarters. Marx has him on a bunk, buried to the hilt.

* * *

Marx does not remember when he succumbed to Loki's spell. He responds to Thor more readily than he does to his own name. They're kissing. In fact, they're kissing hard. Their lips lock in this unholy, depraved way. It's as though they've done it a million times before.

* * *

Marx drills into him. They fit together like severed pieces of the same instrument. The man will not be dominated. Any time Loki so much as puts more force into his kiss, Marx immediately and ferociously responses to regain control. His hands hold his wrists against the bedding. Marx has rough hands… Thor's rough hands…

* * *

The pink flush in Loki's cheeks only serves to drive him onward like an overseer's whip. The temptation is too much for him. Those green eyes taunt him, namely when they gaze in a drunk, half lidded sexual stupor. Loki's cold, winter beauty is intoxicating. Red stands out so vividly against his moon white complexion.

* * *

The bunk is creaking and groaning in protest as Marx ruthlessly ruts into Loki's body. However, there is no one there to hear it but them. Loki's moans, pleas, and cries go unanswered. The force rocks him.

Eventually, Loki's hands are freed. Their lips collide. Their tongues meet. Loki rakes his fingertips down the sculpted flesh of Marx's naked torso. It's a transition he feels in his very soul – a feverish conversion that takes him from merely accepting the loathsome Marx… to desperately loving him - deeply loving him for who he was and who he always will be in the dusty corners of Loki's memory. Marx_ is_ Thor. Marx is his Thor. And by the Allfather's soul, if this is the closest Loki will ever get to him again... then so be it.

He starts doing things such as bowing his back, sucking on his neck, pinching his nipples, spontaneously clenching around him, carding fingers through his hair, and squeezing his well muscled chest – the little things Thor used to like. Their hair is still damp with water, bodies misted with sweat.

Marx gropes his thigh, his hip. He goes for absolutely anything his hungry hands can find to squeeze. It's as if they were never apart. Marx suddenly wraps a hand around Loki's arousal. Loki seizes his wrist, blushing fiercely under the pressure, but this does not deter him. Marx's thumb goes to work. Loki squeezes his wrist harder, choking on a moan. Marx's hand starts to move. Loki goes slackjawed.

Marx plants his opposite hand against the bedding, above Loki's shoulder. He adjusts position, knees moving farther apart, spreading Loki wider for him. The burly blonde brings his leg up and hangs it over his shoulder. Flexibility was key in his profession. Loki has lost none of his charms in that regard. Loki moans lowly, undone by the way Marx drives into him, certain he has never been this deep, even in their dalliances on Asgard. Marx grunts in response, emitting highly pleasured groans and moans of his own.

They go hard. They go hot. They go heavy.

And they likely would have gone for hours had the autopilot not relayed the Inferno's advancing position. Loki has a mind to take a crow bar to it later.

Marx packs him full one last time before he removes his half flaccid shaft, stands, and dresses. Loki lays on the bunk, stained with sweat and seed, utterly ruined for the moment. He is too spent to function logically. He does not ask himself what this means for the two of them, the obvious complications, or where he should go from here. Instead, his thoughts linger exclusively on Thor's expertly wielded "second hammer"… and how bloody much he missed it.

* * *

**Author's Note: **

**I still regret nothing.**


	25. Where Butterflies Never Die

**Multiply humanity, harmonize insanity, s****hedding light of remedy, ****pulling tides of clarity. **

**Shattered glass and flower beds. **

**Humanize human ends. **

**It's all the same for the dreamers. It's all the same for us, for us.**

**~ Broken Iris**

* * *

Marx comes away from their affair more than shaken. Loki would never have known, because unlike Thor, Marx is very good at masking his emotions. It was good with Loki. It usually is, but this time was better. This time was better in a way that leaves him aching to return and have him again… immediately.

He wipes Loki's blood from his lips with a shaking hand. His mind races. Bile rises in his throat. He diverges from the main hall and takes refuge in the shadows of a darker corridor. It brings him no comfort. In spite of his confidence in his identity and loyalty to his father, there has been a minor inconsistency in his tales. You see, Marx has a scar, one he cannot explain because he has no memory of receiving it, just under his left pectoral muscle. He has asked Thanos about it once before. He dismissed it as a battle wound.

Marx always had trouble swallowing that because usually, due to his effective psychological weapon, his opponents never get within striking range.

Marx was careless this time. He let himself fall too far into the act, delve too deep into the memories imprinted in Loki's blood.

He saw two men on the summit of a soaring silver structure. They are alone in the sky, so high above a great clamor that Marx cannot put reason to.

Marx turns on his heel, taking a detour into the lavatory chamber, his eyes fixated on his image in the looking glass spanning the breadth of the far wall. The chamber smells of mold, the tiles yellow with age. There is rust in the facets and the line-lights blink unreliably. His steps slow. His suspicion and apprehension are evident in his face and his eyes. He approaches the mirror with caution.

* * *

_There's a voice. It is deep and desperate and full of conviction. There is fabric beneath his hands as he clutches the other man, as if to wring something from him. He shakes him. "Look at this! Look around you! You think this madness will end with your rule?"_

_A second voice comes from the second man. His tumultuous green eyes are troubled and his expression uncertain. Sophisticated, silky, but sad, "It's too late. It's too late to stop it." Marx knows that voice._

* * *

Marx slowly opens the uniform commandeered from the supply closet.

* * *

_"No." Marx suddenly merges with the broader man fully. There is no difference between them and Marx cannot step back to admire the exchange from a bystander's perspective. It's Loki. The second man is Loki. He stares into Loki's face, fighting the urge to cup his cheek… to kiss him. "We can, together."_

* * *

Marx stares in horror at the scar. He ghosts a finger over it.

* * *

_Loki meets his eyes. The sorrow and weight of that silent moment crashes down on Marx like a tidal wave. Tears brim in Loki's eyes. "Sentiment," he whispers forlornly, as if that word should trigger another memory from another life too. Next, Marx feels something plunge into his side – something sharp and small and specially crafted to stab._

* * *

He feels the same searing pain all over again. The rippling muscles of his torso seize up. The pain ebbs, but the scar remains.

This cannot be. This cannot possibly be! Marx, enraged by this perverse duality, throws his fist into the mirror. Cracks spiderweb out from the point of impact as the mirror shatters into an irreparable mess of shards. Marx feels sick, because in spite of its ruin, the pieces still stare back at him, reflecting the state of his own character. He has no idea where to begin to mend the damage. The combing cracks, which began as slender fractures, are now insurmountable gorges. He stands upon the precipice of his own destruction. Marx sinks to his knees and lets his bloody hands hang in his lap… as he realizes that he will _never _recover from this encounter.

Loki will haunt him for the rest of his days.

* * *

Loki lays in the well-used bunk, gazing at the wall where two letters are crudely scratched into the panel, surrounded by what could be a heart shape or a deformed diamond. The enchanted haze of sex and satisfaction is dissipating. As phenomenal as it felt, as healing as it seemed, he is no more whole than he was back on AkoII. Once more, he sees a desolate, empty world of abuse and death. His future is bleak, ugly, and cancerous.

He ignores the sting in his neck and shoulders. It merely reminds him he is still alive. Tears roll out of his eyes and over a vacant expression. He reaches out and sweeps his fingers over the engraving. The divots fill with ice… and he can see it clearer now. The initials H&R glint and sparkle in the faint light. He chokes on a sob, curls his fingers, and drags four shallow scratches through the letters. The streaks redden the farther he goes as the thin flecks of paint cut into his fingertips. He doesn't feel it. There is no pain Loki cannot endure at this point.

* * *

_It is a midday in late fall (mere weeks away from the equestrian event that shall not be named). Thor and Loki lay on their hill, skirted by what little remains of Asgard's wild country. Thor is twenty one, Loki is nineteen, and they are both madly in love._

_"Do you think it odd?" Thor muses aloud._

_Loki turns his head to regard him wryly. "What are you on about now?"_

_"Us," Thor clarifies, frowning at the autumn sky. "Do you think it odd?"_

_Loki rolls his eyes. "Why the bloody Jotun does that matter? We're gods."_

_Thor blinks. Loki's blunt logic is lost on him. "Volstagg thinks it odd."_

_Loki purses his lips and drums his fingers against his stomach. "Volstagg thinks about as much as you do." Lady Sif and the Warriors Three are the only ones who know. Likely as not, until Thor is crowned, the couple will keep it that way. Thor laughs in that lazy, arrogant, moronic way that sends Loki's stomach storming and wanting to swoon. "Besides. Relations like ours are common place in Egypt," he says flippantly._

_Thor turns to look at him, blue eyes brimming with curiosity. "Egypt?"_

_Loki does not bother to correct his mispronunciation. "Midgardian sandtrap," Loki dismisses with a flutter of his snowy hand._

_Thor smiles blithely. "I will never understand your fascination with those-"_

_"Insects?" Loki finishes, turning to watch him fondly. He shifts enough to extend one leg and bend the other. "Yes, well, keeping tabs on them is rather like having my own ant farm. It's probably the closest thing to pets I'll ever get."_

_Thor grins victoriously. "You have Naveir."_

_Loki practically snorts. "Naveir is not a pet," he corrects, thinking fondly on the slightly larger than average black lynx Thor gifted him on his seventeenth birthday. He was a kitten then and none of them knew precisely how big he would grow to be. By the time he reached Loki's hip, Frigga and Odin were having second thoughts about keeping him in the palace._

_Loki and Thor have this playful banter every once in a while. While Thor believes any animal belonging to a person is a pet, Loki's definition stipulates that a pet must need that person in order to survive. Naveir is free to come and go as he pleases. He hunts, explores, and thinks for himself. Loki's only task is forcing the beast into the bathtub every so often. He will not have a filthy Naveir soiling his living quarters._

_"You are more of a pet than he is," Loki says. Thor laughs again, rolls over, and presses a chaste kiss to his lips. Loki smiles, as much as the kiss will allow. He hooks a hand around behind his neck and when Thor tries to get up, he merely pulls him back. Loki is hardly surprised when Thor ropes an arm around behind his back and picks him up as he stands. Loki locks his arms around his neck, kissing him. It's innocent and eager and sincere. Loki chuckles against his lips and kicks his feet up when Thor turns in a circle, disturbing a few leaves strewn over the browning grass._

_And on the trunk of the tree, not five paces away, are the letters T&L, surrounded by a crude, lop-sided heart._


	26. We the Fallen Reprise

Marx takes his place in the high backed commander's chair, bracketed by digital keypads that aew smudged and cracked from years of use. Loki emerges into the cockpit a few minutes later. He folds his arms and stands to the side of the captain's position. They both wear outdated uniforms. The durable stretch material frames some of Loki's assets more daringly than he would like. He laments for his modest, heavy Asgardian attire. He misses his cape. He misses his hair gel.

The uniforms are long sleeved and high colored, making them ideal in Loki's case. Whoever the strangers are, he hardly imagines they will take well to vampirism this far outside of Thanos' Empire. Moreover, it would have been a shame to don their old rags after… ahem… cleaning up. Loki's raven locks are secured behind him with an elastic chord. Marx's hair is in a loose braid that hangs over his right shoulder. Safely out of Marx's line of vision, Loki adopts a shallow, sad smile.

* * *

_There's snow outside now. Loki and Thor sit on Loki's sumptuous __bed __before the crackling hearth. Naveir is curled up on the bearskin rug blanketing the floor. His tail sways contently._

_Thor assumes a disgruntled pout, folding his well-honed arms across his chest, much like an irritated child. "This is disgraceful."_

_Thor's freshly brushed tresses, separated into three thick strands, slide easily through Loki's fingers. "No. What is disgraceful is you wearing this unruly mop of hair the way you do," Loki reminds him, trying to curb his smirk. Loki has caught himself smiling more often than not these days. It is surreal, and dangerous, for him to be this happy. He pays the warnings no heed. His eyes stray to the stumble on Thor's well defined chin and the beginnings of a beard he just can't seem to grow. _

_Loki resumes braiding his hair. By now, it has reached mid-back. Loki knows Thor plans to cut it soon. If not, Odin will do it for him. As if he is trying to justify it, "Mother wears it like this."_

"_Precisely," Thor mutters. _

_Loki chuckles. Thor purses his lips and shuffles them about, inadvertently wiggling his nose. Loki's chuckle turns into more of an outright laugh. Thor fixes him in a suspiciously playful glare. "Do not despair," Loki insists, sitting up enough to peck Thor's nose. "It looks quite fetching on you."_

_Thor glances down as Loki's fingers return to their task. "I should keep it short, like you do."_

_Loki sits back. "Ah. But then I would miss moments like this," Loki tells him, calling sincerity into his voice that he only uses with Thor. Loki notices that Thor looks vexed as he stares intently at Loki's fingers. Using his thumb to hold his place, Loki takes Thor's wrist and untangles his arms with a few gentle tugs. He brings Thor's hand to the braid, fixing his fingers to hold it in place. Loki takes his other hand. He begins to guide Thor's fingers through the motions, silently teaching him. _

_When it is finished, Loki lets Thor's hands fall away and laces a thin green ribbon around the end. He ties it slowly, because the quicker he finishes, the sooner it will all be over. He loops it into a bow and tugs it tight and secure. He looks up, mildly startled to see Thor gazing at him. Loki searches, apprehensively, for signs of disapproval in his handsome face. But Thor merely smiles. And Loki smiles back. And Naveir rolls his amber eyes._

_And Loki will never recover from this._

_Thor will haunt him for the rest of his days._

* * *

Loki has to turn away to discreetly dry the tears on his cheeks and under his chin. Marx is too busy with the controls to notice. Composure rectified, Loki's attention turns towards the forward view screen when he hears a woman's voice. "Season's greetings from the Inferno, Captain Rogers." The monitor flickers twice, but her sharp featured image becomes clear in a matter of seconds. Her brows knit together. She looks perplexed, eyeing the two of them disdainfully. "Where is Captain Rogers?"

Marx must want to avoid confrontation, because he starts lying. "The Captain is not aboard. We are traveling into Enforcer territory, and deemed it best he remain behind."

"Ah. I see. Pity. I was looking forward to seeing him." Her luscious black lips smile as she sits back comfortably. The expression makes Loki anxious and he folds his arms. "I am Jinx, captain of the Inferno. Honestly, I have no interest in who you two are. Let's just make this quick. Rogers and I have an understanding when it comes to passing through my territory." She drags her fingers suggestively over the armrest of her chair. "Surely, you were informed."

Marx's hands tighten around the heads of his armrests. Loki can see the muscles of his body tensing. He keeps his low voice even and deceptively calm. "Remind me?"

She rolls her eyes. "To cross safely, you must present me with a gift," she states flatly.

"… I was not informed. It must have slipped his mind," Marx replies.

Jinx pouts, insulted. She steeples her fingers. "That's not like him at all. So, am I correct in assuming you did not bring any such expendable treasure with you?"

"You are," Marx says.

Jinx narrows her eyes, fixing him in an especially cold glare. "Well then. I guess we'll just have to take what we can find. Prepare to be boarded."

Loki can tell Marx has had just enough of her nagging. His intense focus on the monitor with distinct direct eye contact can mean only one thing. Loki braces against the scream that he knows is coming, prepared to turn away from her gruesome end.

"Captain," someone says. Jinx turns her head towards a crew member outside of the viewer. "Sensors are reading a psych-spike from the Fortune."

Loki blinks. Marx freezes. Jinx turns back to him and scowls. "I merely meant to board and take a generator or two. Whether or not hostility was involved was up to you. I guess the game is on, Captain. I would ask which of you has this delicious little ability, but judging from the way you are gawking, I think the answer is obvious."

"That's not possible," Marx snarls, standing. "You can't possibly have shields that can detect and block a psych-attack."

"Not mechanized shields, no." She smiles contemptuously. Loki suddenly understands. There is someone with a complementary ability on that vessel, someone who acts as a psychological shield. Could it truly be? Could there really exist another creature who could stand toe to toe with Marx and live? "Why do I get the feeling there's just the two of you aboard your little tugboat?" Marx fists his great hands. "I look forward to meeting you," she continues. "I suggest coming peacefully. The situation has changed. Rogers has always been the hero type. I expect he will pay handsomely for your release. And if not, there are others I know who will put up quite sum for a psych user." The image fizzles out and fades to black just before a jarring bump as the Inferno skims the side and locks onto the Fortune.

Loki turns worried eyes on Marx who stares at the corridor leading to the docking bay, his mind scrambling for an alternative plan of action. He is frozen, as if he sees something Loki cannot. The sight of his uncertainty makes Loki all the more apprehensive… and a little nauseous. He turns on his heel, meaning to make for the armory. The click of a weapon makes him stop. He whirls around to see a pair of grunts totting intimidating guns enter the cockpit. From the way they wield them, Loki can tell they rarely miss.

"Hands on your head," the hairless one demands through a wiry beard. Loki looks at Marx, who is still staring at the entrance. Loki can hear the leathery groan of Marx's gloves as he fists his mighty hands. Loki's brows knit together. A heaviness descends upon him as he looks towards the entry arch. Loki's stomach takes a tumble and viciously knots up. His skin crawls and his heart races as a man in white steps into view. The white haired one is barely of age by Asgardian standards, as evidenced by the lack of definition in his face, but he is… _beautiful_. He is beautiful in a way Loki cannot hope to contest, because his beauty comes from the opposite side of the spectrum. Warm. White. Tan. Green eyes that shine brighter than his own.

They are inverted mirror images of one another.

Counter intuitively, it is not his rare ability that has Loki on edge now, but his aesthetic appeal.

Loki's attention tracks anxiously between the two men. It takes him a moment to understand that they are in the midst of a battle be cannot see. It is a battle that is felt. Dangerously cold jealousy roars to life inside Loki's chest and writhes like warring serpents. The intensity with which they stare at one another fills him with dread that he cannot put reason to. The man in white is advancing on Marx. Ice crystalizes around Loki's fingertips, the color blue bleeds up his hands, and his eyes assume a redder hue.

But...

The frost snake manages to recoil. He resumes his pale complexion. If they discover his true identity this early, it could spell doom for all of them. Marx and his opponent stand toe to toe. Marx, seeming immobile, makes no attempt to retaliate as one grunt cuffs him from behind.

"Come on then," the other grunt who treks behind Loki sneers with a shove, digging the barrel of his gun into Loki's back.

They go quietly. Loki hasn't the slightest inkling was awaits them now.

* * *

**Author's Note: I've suddenly decided to introduce more characters. One in particular will be essential for future chapters. I apologize for the general lack of female roles in this story. **

**Actually... **

**no I don't.**

***hearts to all***


	27. Mannequin Factory

**Yeah. Look at me. **

**Tell me what you see. Am I a creep? Well, I don't even know. Are you impressed? Do you like my dress? Am I worst or best?**

**Oh, wait… _I don't really care_.**

**No etiquette. What you see is what you get. Dressed in burlesque while I'm hiding from the sun. Strut in the streets. Fashion on a freak. **

**Look look. **

**Look at me.**

**I'm a loaded gun.**

**~ Porcelain Black**

* * *

Marx and Loki are separated before they meet this tyrannical pirate wench. As a side, Marx is acting strange, which makes Loki all the more reluctant to leave him, especially with the… space angel.

Loki is escorted to a new prison, one uncased in wrought iron bars, by a decidedly uglier chaperon. The discrepancy grates on his nerves and the gun against his back will surely leave a bruise. The cage they come upon only heightens his anxiety. His cell is situated on the right side of a dim hall. His is the first in the row. There are two other cubicles down the way and three more directly across from them. The air is fragrant with sweat. This corridor is dark and musty, but it is not cold. The ship, from what he has noticed, is generally warm. Either they have excellent circulation from the generators, or they can afford to spend a great deal of cash on individual heating units.

The bald, burly, tattooed man with the beard locks the gate to his cell. Hearing movement, Loki looks into the next compartment. A male figure is dangling from one of the bars that lids his cell. He pulls himself up and lets himself down again, knees bent as not to touch the floor with his bare toes. Loki surmises that he does it often. He has an exceptional physique that is only accentuated in the lacking overhead light.

The stranger drops to the floor, landing on his feet with ease. He wears a dark long sleeved shirt, appearing as thin as paper. It clings to him. Or at least, what is left clings to him. The garment reaches his hands, weaving between his fingers and thumb. The neck line plunges down in a v-shape, revealing a smooth, sculpted chest. The bottom, however, is ripped and tattered, exposing a sizable chunk of his midriff… and its rolling abdominals in the center of a sloping waist. Loki envisions the shirt is meant to be worn as an undergarment for armor or a plated uniform, nothing more. He stands a few inches shorter than Loki does, but they probably weigh roughly the same, if not the shorter male coming up heavier due to all the lean muscle mass. His hair is a short and sandy blonde.

He vaguely reminds Loki of Steve. And with that correlation drawn, it hurts to look at him.

"'Ey, Sharp," he greets. There is an accent in his lazy reception. He fills out his coarse, low quality leathers quite well. They're strangely low, hugging below his waist to expose the muscular meat on his hips. He wears an empty munitions belt around the waist band and another around his thigh.

Sharp, whom Loki assumes is the identity of his aforementioned escort, does not acknowledge him. The blonde turns towards Loki's cell and approaches the wall that separates them with a loose and easy arrogance. He raises his hands and wraps his fingers around the bars, eyeing Loki curiously. "Wha' ya' in fo'?" He puts more weight on his right foot, causing his hip to jut out. He stands too casually, his mannerisms too informal. His general nature is one of undiluted seduction and betrayal. He reminds Loki of a lecherous Steve, tainted by an addiction to every sin imaginable. He too is handsome. And he makes a show of knowing it.

"Good question," Loki concedes coldly, folding his arms.

Loki has abided with enough scum to know when someone is "bad news".

And this felon reeks of debauchery.

Everything about him is a recipe for an erotic fantasy.

"Don' wanna talk about it? I unda'stand. We can catch up lata'," he says, dropping a lopsided smirk. "Sharp isn't very talkative eitha', are you mate?" he prompts, glancing towards their guard. He stands upright and sways slightly, but somehow it looks natural. His attention darts back to Loki and he winks. "Tough guy. It's awl fo' show."

"Shut up—" Sharp uses foreign jargon, pronounced something like te'jae, that Loki does not recognize. The strange male inclines his chin haughtily, unfazed if it was in any way insulting. He stands and retreats to his concrete cot in the corner. He smiles lasciviously, eyes glued to Sharp, who turns brusquely away and storms down the hall.

Loki begins to pace his cell when the brute leaves.

"You aim to wear a 'ole in the floa'?" the male asks, reclining on his cot as though it is made of down and silk.

Loki does not answer him either. His situation is too trying to bandy odd bits with a man who is, likely as not, an "illegal keepsake". Then again, there is no institutionalized government this far outside of Thanos' empire. Prostitution is entirely legal, because there are no laws on the frontier. Loki would like to think himself better than him, in spite of the fact that he knows he is not. He justifies it with crude reasons. It somehow makes him feel better.

Loki approaches the bars. He wonders if he can rend them brittle under his frost powers. His discouragement is palpable when he discovers they are resistant. The harder he tries, the warmer they become. They're enchanted… and Loki has to wonder why. There is no water, standing or otherwise, for him to use. Why would a pirate crew… need charmed prison cells? Blessed of any sort are rare in this day and age.

* * *

An hour or so later, another grunt slides an aluminum platter of dehydrated, packaged food under each other their grates. Loki, seated in the corner where his concrete cot meets the side wall, knows he will never keep it down. The stranger simply turns over onto his back and slides his hand into his pocket. He extracts short, stout sage-stick. In many places, they replaced cigarettes when tobacco was farmed out and taken off the market. Loki presumes it is laced, though he knows not with what.

He hardly imagines this Midnight Romeo is the remedial type.

The man strikes a dry match against the wall and lights the end. He closes his eyes, shutting the world out, seeming content to dwell elsewhere. He drags from the drug, simultaneously bringing his legs up, suggesting enormous abdominal strength. He holds them effortlessly at a ninety degree angle, ankles crossed, lending to his obvious flexibility. He slowly exhales. The smoke assumes a light purple color. Loki is appalled, but he can't look away. The man smiles to himself. He shifts to stretch his arms up beside his ears, the stick between two fingers, his lewd grin causing the rising smoke to curl in thin ribbons from his teeth. What remains of the smokes leaks from his nostrils when his lips turn a smirk. He bends a knee and reduces the angle of the other leg.

"Gene," he says.

"Pardon?" Loki inquires before he can stop himself.

He twists his hands, popping his wrists. Loki cringes. Dreamily, "My name. It's Gene." Loki is just about to make a cut about not asking for that useless bit of information when Gene says, "Seth is my brutha'."

"… Seth?" Loki bites, oddly transfixed by the way the small of Gene's back undulates from the concrete slab when he stretches. He wonders, silently, if he could do that if he tried.

Gene gradually drops a knee over his hip, cracking the breadth of his spine. "The white 'aired bloke… The pretty one with the ponytau'." He rights himself and drags again.

Loki masks his interest with boredom. He folds his arms, tucked into the corner of his own cell. "I never would have guessed," he drones. "You look nothing alike." And he hopes it hurts Gene half as much as merely seeing Seth hurts him.

Smoke pours from his lips as he says, nonchalant, "Not awl of us are born with the lion's share of alluring qualities, mate."

The pungent, tangy, bittersweet smell of the smoke leaves a strange sensation in Loki's nose. "What are you then? Twins?"

"No. Everyone asks though. Guess they can sympathize easier, looking at the uglier side of wha' might 'ave been. I'm olda'. Twenty fou', roughly..."

"And from what realm do you and your brother hail?" Loki pries, more interested in Seth than this sensuous garbage.

Gene hesitates. He shrugs languidly. "Dunno. I been a lot of places. But apparently, I'm safest in 'ere."

Loki rolls his eyes. "And why is that?" he bites, despite the fact that he probably knows the answer.

Gene chuckles. It's a provocative, rolling, careless sound… that leaves Loki's mouth watering. "Probably betta' for my 'ealth if my brutha' approves my patrons. Been getting loose with tha' though." He stretches out one leg to toe the bars separating his chamber from the next cell. He finally opens his eyes, gazing at his foot. "'Aven't seen a lick of tha' cash eitha'…" He chuckles numbly. "Lookit' the fancy digs though. They give me clothes and everything." He drags again. "Wonda' if they mean to bring you on. You're nawt bad looking."

Loki's heart plunges into his stomach, which rolls in response. Being backhandedly complimented by Gene is the rotten cherry atop this dessert of refuse. He is on his feet before he knows what is happening. "I am no one's property," Loki hisses. Not anymore. He balks when he realizes how slack he feels - how he can hardly sense the floor beneath his feet. It is analogous to emerging from a boiling bath, muscles abandoning all sense of tension. The substance embedded in the sage is highly potent.

Gene is unfazed, either high off the drug or generally numb to adverse reactions. "Not for long, no. Jus' for an hour. Maybe two. Sometimes less than 'alf an hour if you do 'um right. The girls get sold. More money in tha'. But not us. We stay… to be used anotha' day." He laughs outright.

"There is no us," Loki snaps viciously. Gene smiles to himself. "Is that what this vessel is? A ship for trafficking?"

"No. Tha's jus' an added bonus, luv… for 'hoeva' comes ova' for tea time with the captain." Loki hears footsteps reverberating down the corridor. "And the crew, of course." Gene starts waving a finger, volleying back and forth with each echoing step, like an upturned pendulum. Loki realizes he is counting.

"Ridiculous. The entire lot can't possibly desire men," Loki snaps in disbelief. Then again, there is a ray of hope in this. If Seth is anything like Gene, Marx may use him if presented with the opportunity, but not continually covet him. "Your brother too?"

"No," Gene charms callously as Loki's hopes are dashed. "Too good for awl tha'."

Loki narrows his eyes. Venomously, "I suspect your relations with Sharp are frequent though."

Gene makes no effort whatsoever to adjust the volume of his voice. "Oh, no. Sharp prefers women. But they go too fast. Can't keep a woman on board for more than two days out 'ere. 'Igh demand. Can't touch 'um eitha'. Too valuable. Precious as gems, they are." There's a growing shadow in the hallway beyond the bars. Lowly, "But he always comes back. He 'as needs too… don't you mate?" Sharp emerges into sight. "You got rough, 'eavy, nasty needs," Gene's voice tappers off in a suggestive, almost inane chuckle. His smile is too broad, too blithe. He's deranged. He must be.

Sharp reclines against the cell door across from Gene's prison, the broad breadth of his back braced against the bars. Gene strolls up to his cell door. He dips his forearms through the vertical bars. He leans forward and rests his elbows on the horizontal support. He stands just so, displaying the round of a certain asset that even Loki cannot berate. They stare each other down until Gene turns his right palm up… and beckons Sharp forward with a snaking finger.

Loki blanches when he realizes Gene has completely resigned himself to this life, permanently drunk off some perverse sexual high.

He and Marx must find a way to escape this wretched place… immediately.


	28. You Should be Ashamed

**You are not like me, **  
**I am not like you. **  
**I had no enemies. ****I had only dreams. **

**I gave my best to you, I won't do that again. **  
**When I close my eyes, **  
**I hope that fucker dies.**

**~ Columbine**

* * *

At first, Sharp does not budge. He merely eyes Gene with all the skepticism and suspicion one person can possibly muster. Gene tilts his head too far to the right. "S'wrong?" Gene teases._ "_Can't get it up?"

A prominent vein in Sharp's forehead is pulsing angrily. He sounds irate and frustrated when he sneers, "If you say another bloody word—"

Gene inclines his chin. "You'll wha'?" he tests, assuming a loose, taunting pose with his head tilted the other way and his eyes wider. "Plug my mouth? Oh, I'd like tha'. Come on luv. You 'ad fun last time. Lemme make your night. We even 'ave a captive audience." Lowly, "It's gotta' turn you on some."

Loki recognizes the covetous way Sharp is eyeing the other inmate. That ravenous, wicked leer casts a Marx-like shadow over his face. "You're up to something." Loki can tell that he's chewing on the idea though, mulling it over, churning the fantasies and stoking the flames of desire.

He smiles. "Yea'. I'm trying to get laid. You try bein' 'oled up like this for awhile, no kicks. It'll change ya. Tie me up if you're awl suspicious." As if that is not enough, he chums the water again. "What can I do awl chained up? Betta' question though… What can you nawt do to me, awl chained up?" Now that Loki looks closer, he notices thick chains and shackles hanging from the top rungs of the other prisoners' cell bars.

"On your knees," Sharp commands. Gene obeys, letting his palms slide down the bars of his cage until he is kneeling. Sharp approaches Gene's cell. He keeps a secure hold on his slug gun with one hand. He adjusts his belt and unfastens his pants with the other. Loki is not surprised when he reveals a well ready erection. Sharp locks his gun, presenting Gene with his engorged tool through the bars. "Start sucking, whore," he says gruffly. Gene licks up the underside of the solid, wanting organ. Loki averts his eyes. However, he can still hear it – the salacious groans, the rattling of the bars, the slurping, the moaning…

From the sound of it, this is something Gene excels at. Loki's suspicions are confirmed when a desperate Sharp sneers, "Finish me."

"Or what? You'll knock me off?" Gene asks with a lecherous, deep edge to his voice. "Come inside, mate. Shag me for real."

Sharp comes unglued. He slams his hand against the iron bars, clearly livid with frustration. Loki can tell he would snatch a fistful of Gene's hair and take what he wanted had the male not already stood up. Gene steps back, just out of reach. "Come on, mate," he coaxes. His voice is hot and low. "Fuck me on the floor. 'Ow bout against the wall?" he tempts. He starts smiling, clearly attaining a great deal of satisfaction from the carnal anger in Sharp's face. Sharp's arousal responds immediately. The man himself, however, is less than assured.

"... Drop your pants," he growls. And Gene does, after he drops his sage stick on the floor and snuffs it out. "Hands up, by those cuffs," Sharp sneers. Gene raises his hands, waiting with a suggestive smirk. "Move, and I'll kill you," Sharp concludes. He is serious. He sets his gun aside. He fumbles with the keys, dangling from a string around his neck. He opens the cell door. Sharp advances on Gene, seizes him, and roughly secures the dangling shackles around his wrists.

"You want me to turn around?" Gene asks with something poisonous in his voice.

Sharp scoffs contemptuously. "No. I want to see every fucking ounce of pain in your face. You're going to remember this just as vividly as I will."

Sharp seizes Gene's throat. He shoves him back and Loki cringes discretely when the man hits the wall. The resounding smack of flesh against stone makes the metal buzz. Gene fists his hands, stifling a groan. There is nothing kind about the way Sharp splits open his thighs. The man's fingers bite into Gene's backside and rake down his legs as he forges his way between them. Gene raises his knees accordingly, displaying no resistance whatsoever. He is but a mere living sex toy for Sharp to use and abuse to his cock's content. Loki shudders when Sharp hastily runs him through. Gene's abdominal muscles contract instantly, but he does not cry out. He clenches his fists instead.

Loki is mortified, flashbacks of his own similar situations hitting him in jarring still. Frozen and immobile, he finds himself unable to look away as Sharp devours the stranger. There is a moment, briefly, while Sharp is nosing under Gene's jaw to suck on his neck, that Gene's attention slides his way. They meet eyes. Gene smiles nefariously. He looks away, easing into a crooked grin as Sharp drills into him. Gene only encourages him with short, sensuous quips and suggestions. Eventually, both of Gene's knees are hung over Sharp's shoulders. The burly guard is growing close, his breathing coming fast and unbridled. Gene clenches and inclines appropriately. It's a writhing mess of muscle mass. Sharp thrusts. Gene gives. Sharp ruts. Gene tightens. The aggressive guard seems insatiable. Loki can see the telling creases of pain in Gene's face, despite how well his voice disguises it.

"Yeah," Sharp groans. "Aw, yeah. Yeah. Almost there. I'll burn you from the inside out, whore. I'll make you scream." He gropes Gene's backside relentlessly. Even in the dim lighting, Loki can see the vivid brown and red marks his grubby fingers leave behind.

"Do it," Gene permits in a leading tone. Sharp soon hits his peak, punctuating it with a fierce thrust and a grunt of approval. He is at the height of his orgasm, erection spilling seed into Gene, when he releases his toy's hips and braces his hands on the wall. And then, Loki sees Gene wrap his calloused fingers around the chain links that suspend him from the lid of the cell. Gene suddenly yanks himself up higher, biceps bulging, and constricts his thighs around Sharp's neck.

Lowly, "Start praying, bastard."

Gene suddenly twists his hips. Loki hears Sharp's spinal column snap. Loki balks and nearly stumbles back. Gene releases Sharp and the corpse falls in a limp heap to the floor, his undignified open trousers and half flaccid cock more than evident. Gene gradually lets himself back down. His face is flushed. His sweat misted muscles tremble, much like the withers of an overworked race horse. Loki has barely recovered from the shock of witnessing the depraved murder when Gene goes for the string of keys around Sharp's neck.

He curls his toes around the string, secures a hold on the keys themselves, and slips it off Sharp's neck. He carefully places the keys on his opposite knee. It's practically a balancing act. He gradually brings that knee to his mouth and takes the correct key between his teeth. He coils his hands into the chains again and pulls himself up. He tilts his head and inserts the key into the hole of the cuff on his right wrist. He turns it. The cuff opens. After that, he is free in a matter of seconds. He drops down to the floor and unlocks the other shackle.

Gene slips back into his trousers. He strides out of the cell to the entry arch where he takes a cumbersome black garment from a hook in the shadows – girdled boots. The boots themselves brim to mid-thigh. He synchs their straps into the munitions belt around his hips. He wraps his chest in a studded cross-belt, meant to holster blades. Gene lays his palm on the wall, feeling around for something. He apparently finds it, because he begins fumbling with the keys, trying the ones that look most promising in a lock that Loki cannot see. Gene starts muttering to himself, implementing a colorful string of expletives. "Motha' of—" he growls. He suddenly knocks the butt of his fist against the wall. A compartment falls open. Gene smiles. Soon enough, the man is outfitted in more weapons than Loki can count on his fingers.

Loki, who is still wary of this bizarre enigma, cautiously approaches the door of his cell. Gene glances at him. Loki squares his shoulders. Gene eyes him incredulously. It's a silent question, but Loki inquired regardless. He needs to get out of here too.

"Do I look like the charitable sort to you, mate?"

"Oh, I don't know. You were certainly generous enough with him." Loki nods shallowly in Sharp's direction.

Gene's lips curl into an impish smile as he secures the final knife into the stray belt wreathing his upper thigh. "Yea. I'll try not to weep ova' tha' lata'."

Loki frowns subtly. That was strange. He could have sworn…

There's a distant clamor somewhere down the corridor.

Gene shoulders the wall, crossing his boots at the ankle. To Loki, "Ante up, mate. I don't do anything for free."


	29. Switchback

Marx tails Seth through the Inferno with an armed guard flanking them. He is not thrilled about letting Loki out of his sight, but he suspects the security on this ship is tight enough not to fret. Moreover, Loki will never make a move without him there. He has made damn sure of that.

They pass through motion activated blast doors that seal cavernously in their wake. The ship is in remarkable condition, given its placement so far from even the shabbiest renovation stations. He would take more time to appreciate, even inquire as to the upkeep and crew work, were his mind not on other more pressing matters. They emerge into a wider sanctum with a long table at the heart. Marx assumes it is a reception chamber.

Seth turns gracefully on his heel, his white hair falling over his shoulder. "I'd like a word with our guest. Alone," he tells the second escort. The man turns and leaves, sealing the doors behind them.

Seth's expression changes. "What are you doing here?" he hisses urgently in a decidedly softer tone.

Marx angles his body defensively, venturing a step nearer. "I could ask you the same thing," he sneers.

"Nevermind that. You're botching a vital undercover operation is what you're doing!" he snaps. "How in the blazes did you get your hands on a rebel vessel anyway?"

"I was in a bind. I improvised. And what the bloody bones are you talking about? What undercover mission?" Marx eyes him in disgust. "_Deserter._ You abandoned your post with the Enforcers. I should skin you alive right now and save Father the effort!"

Seth assumes a sincere expression. "I did no such thing! You may be privy to a great deal, Commander, but your father _did _keep this from you. From all."

He ventures even closer. "Start explaining then. You disappeared years ago. The fleet was devastated. Why?" he snarls lowly.

Seth raises his olive hands, palms turned out in understanding. "Sh," she soothes. "Stay your hand, Commander. You _must_ lower your voice." He glances towards the doorway. "The captain will be along any moment." Seth fixes him in a vivid green leer. "Listen well."

"Roughly five years ago, the Emperor summoned me to Thangard… to discuss a development most dire brewing in the outer shelves. He instructed me to steal away in secret. I could tell no one. There was great unrest at the time. You recall. There were many warring planets on the frontier, deeply divided against Vampirism. Word reached Thanos of a radical group that was engineering bio-chemical weapons, designed to target the growing Harvester population propagated by Thanos' teachings."

Marx narrows his eyes. He is not entirely convinced.

"Feeding on blood warps the brain and rewires the body's processing centers. They are marked by distinct chemical sheath signatures that are not found in a brain unaffected. One such weapon was created to target the center of the brain responsible for stimulating hunger cravings, or in this case blood cravings. They wanted to make the vampires look like abominations – to remove the glamor from the act. It caused the infected to loose discretion and control, and eventually succumb to the contagion and perish. You understand now. None could know of my mission. It would only evoke widespread panic. The throne, Thanos himself, would have been questioned and possibly overthrown. Thanos believes it was first developed on unregistered ships… such as this one. So, I created an alternate identity in order to infiltrate it."

Marx watches him, fighting the apprehensive prickling of his flesh.

Seth hesitates. Slowly, "There was an incident a few months ago. The virus was supposed to be traded for quite a sum, I'm sure you can imagine, on a rendezvous planet. Our intercept team arrived too late. The contagion somehow broke containment and mutated with water. The infected stopped dying altogether. They became… animals. Carnal, skulking things that cared only to feed. We cut off all communication to the planet and marooned the survivors. This is very dangerous work, Commander." Marx must have let his guard down over his expression, because Seth is eyeing him strangely. He starts to nod. "It is as I thought then. You are already familiar with this contagion."

Marx squares his meaty shoulders, the muscles of his jaw working as he struggles with the urge to discuss the incident on Red Giant. "What was the planet?" he questions, dreading the answer.

"Abrava," Seth's voice trails off when Marx averts his eyes. "Rumor reached me of the tragedy aboard your vessel weeks ago. I assumed you were all… Well…" Seth whispers, trying to keep the emotion out of his face. His voice sounds so far away to Marx. "They called it a mutiny, but... " He takes a breath. "Marx… which planet did the Red Giant visit last?"

"Abrava," Marx relents.

Seth blanches, his eyebrows knitting together sadly. He swallows hard. Then he starts to shake his head. "But… Then you too were exposed. You must have been."

"I was."

Incredulously, "Yet, you stand before me with no symptoms or signs of infection. How is this possible?"

Marx meets his eyes. Perhaps it is time to tell his former Lieutenant Seth about Loki.

* * *

A heavy silence follows. "_Wew'_?" Gene prompts. Loki's clever mind starts to hatch another plan. He has a bargaining chip.

"You seem like a Jack of All Trades type," Loki says.

"Good eye. I do jus' about anything. Or anyone." Gene smiles. It seems to occur to him in the same moment that he has yet to inspect Sharp's pockets for credits. He strolls back into the adjoining cell and toes the man onto his back. He plants a boot on his chest and commences his search. Finding nothing, he rolls him over on his stomach. He plucks the man's wallet from his back pocket.

Loki cringes at the sight. "Any particular position you take on Imperial Alliance?"

Gene jokes, "Certainly not the missionary one." He is busy leafing through Sharp's cards, photos, and documents. "I usually side with the bloke with the deepa' pockets. Or, in some cases, the bigger cock." He discovers a few coins, looking pleased.

"I have the leader of the Rebel alliance stranded on a nearby planet. He'd be worth quite a sum to the right consumers." It is half a lie, but more truthful than the majority of this other tricks. Plus, should this go according to plan, Loki may get to see Rogers again. Afterall, he owes him. A debt unfulfilled leads to guilt and premature wrinkles.

Gene turns his attention on Loki. "You _'ave _him?" His bright eyes dart around curiously.

Loki adopts a surly pout. "Semantics. I know his present location, which is something a rare few can boast. But the more time we waste hammering out the specifics, the less likely it is he will still be alive upon our arrival."

Gene blows a puff of air out of his lips, causing them to putter in a plainly tentative manner. It is not unlike Loki remembers a horse's reaction to be being penned up. "He's not in a prison, is he? As much as I love the sex with 'ardened criminals… Prisons are easy to get into… but they're rough dives to escape from."

Loki inclines his chin, tolerating his banter for the time being. "No. It is not a prison."

Gene purses his lips, eyeing Loki from head to toe. "Wew', if 'ets not a prison, it's a deserted planet. An' the only deserted planet I know of 'appens to be the one with awl the creepers."

"You know of Abrava?" Loki inquires, narrowing his sharp eyes.

Gene opens his hand solicitously. It is a hand that is no stranger to hard work, or wielding heavy tools… no pun intended. "Course I do. Mining planet. I got a lot of business there. Was kind of a hit with the locals. Them miners are kinky bastards…" He grins wistfully. "S'where my brotha' found me. Dragged me on board and locked me in that there box." He shrugs his meaty shoulders and folds up his arms. "Guess I shouldn't bitch too much though. Woulda' been a goner, right?"

"… You're uncommonly skilled in combat. Should I be wondering why that is?"

Gene fishes something out of his pocket. Loki observes while he starts inserting various studs and hoops into holes that Loki is surprised have not closed in the time they have been without their accessories. Loki suspects they were cauterized. There is a hoop in his right ear lobe, a stud in the upper cartilage, and a small silver ball in his lower lip. "You're welcome to wonda'. Likely as not, I won't tell you though." He smirks impishly.

Loki rolls his eyes, muscular jaw kicking against the strain in his teeth. "Fair enough. Have we an accord?"

"I spring you, and you give me Captain Trouble." Gene flicks his tongue provocatively. He chuckles. Casually,"Sounds fun, mate. I'm in. Jus' don't try anything funny. Cause wha' I did in there," he nods towards his former cage, "I can do betta'. Slowa'. Messia'." His words are a double edged sword, a forked tongue - pregnant with twin meanings. Loki has a heavy feeling in his throat. As Gene plays Guess Which Key, Loki concludes, and he is rarely wrong, that he is one person he does not want to double cross.


	30. Gift for You

**~ Celldweller (Instrumental version.)**

* * *

Jinx is taking an uncharacteristically long time to prepare herself. She is a shrewd, narcissistic woman, but it is not like her to postpone meeting a man – namely a man of Marx's caliber – this long.

Seth does well to mask his anxiety over the situation. It is difficult to abide in the same space as his former Commander alone, especially when their conversation involving Loki comes to a close and they have no further business prospects to exploit. Seth is not easily flustered, but the awkward silence between them is decidedly stressful.

Marx is such a handsome man… and Seth has thought so for quite some time. Had things gone differently, he might have made a move, or at least hinted at his own desires. Marx was an object of many of his personal fantasies. At the time, he was not certain how Marx would respond. Frankly speaking, he is still unsure. The man is a stone wall. The man is a monster.

Seth, for his part, is a confident young man. Thanos crafted him especially to counteract Marx's unbeatable ability to ensure there would be a check on the balance of power aboard Red Giant. Should Marx get out of line or suffer some catastrophe that rendered him unfit to be in command, Seth had the clout to intervene. But… could he? Marx wielded his psychic ability as a weapon. Seth wielded his as a shield. They were designed for each other, to be together, to coexist. Perhaps that explains the strange magnetic attraction Seth feels. He wonders if Marx feels it too.

Jinx's voice startles him when it rings through the com-link. "Second," she prompts.

"Yes Captain?" Seth answers, laying his fingertips against his ear.

Arrogantly, "These idiots cannot seem to locate our pilot. Is Sharp with you?"

Seth's brows knit together. "No, ma'am. He is not." Seth glances at Marx. Something feels amiss.

She sighs, sounding irritated. "Well, wherever he is, he doesn't want to be found. He is not responding to my pages either. Imbecile is probably drunk asleep in the cargo hold," she tells another party. "Go check."

* * *

"What was his last assignment?" Seth inquires, impeccable posture not going unnoticed by Marx. Seth has always been somewhat of a mystery to him. He is kind, quiet, focused, and dedicated. He is very loyal. Marx should never have believed any different. Seth was always the brighter side of his dark world. It feels bizarre, seeing him again. Marx notices his private sentiments leaking out more readily than usual. It is Loki's fault. Everything is Loki's fault.

Jinx scoffs. "I sent him down to the cell block to keep an eye on the other prisoner of course."

Seth's eyes grow. He freezes for an instant before he turns on his heel and jogs towards the exit panel. It wishes open immediately. "Captain, I request we send a security team down there immediately."

"What seems to be the problem?" Marx asks, sounding irritated himself as he follows after Seth.

"The problem is always the same, Commander," Seth says, taking the corners as they come. He navigates the ship with ease. He plucks a gun from his hip. "And he's just south of two meters with a clever mind and a smart mouth."

Marx briefly halts. "… Gene is aboard as well?"

Gene – the failed one. The two brothers were not born so much as made. Their surrogate mother was impregnated synthetically with specially cultivated DNA. Thanos dabbled in genetic experimentation. He dabbled in many questionable things, in fact.

By Gene's fifth birthday, it was becoming apparent enough to Thanos that he would need to start over. As much promise as Gene showed for physical and intellectual prowess, he had no interest or patience for the tactical lessons Thanos sought to teach him. He couldn't sit still for more than a minute at a time. Moreover, he exhibited no signs of the psychic ability Thanos wanted to foster.

Thanos was not their father. The brothers had a couple they called "parents", though they paid much more attention to Seth than to Gene, as mandated in their certificate of charge. Marx was there occasionally, much more with Seth than with Gene as well. And when Gene finally ran away to search for the love that would always elude him, no one bothered to search for him. It was as though he never existed at all.

Until he singlehandedly sabotaged two Enforcer warships seven years later, that is.

Seth and Marx emerge into the cellblock, greeted by the newly deceased Sharp and two open, empty cells. Seth kicks one of the doors closed. It slams and rattles violently, but the thick nuts and bolts in the belly of this beast hold fast. He wheels around and touches his ear again. "Third!" he calls. "Prison breach, code red. Seal off the docking bays. Close all air locks. I want surveillance on every level. Tell them to be on the lookout for two men. Containment is our top priority."

"But sir-" a woman's voice responds.

"Do not argue with me, Cybil. Do it now!"

Hesitantly, "Sir… An emergency vessel was just jettisoned from bunker bay four. Scanners show two passengers aboard," Cybil reports.

Seth drags a hand down his face, anger radiating from every pore. "Inform the captain. Hold course and await her orders." Marx seizes Seth's shoulder, turning him to face him.

"What is going on?" he hisses. "Where is Loki?"

Seth tears his shoulder out Marx's grasp. "If I were to guess? I would say he is with my brother."

The glint in Marx's eyes turns into a livid light. "Why the bloody Jotun is your brother here?!" he booms.

"I found him on Abrava just after the infection broke containment and started to spread through the colony."

"And how exactly are you keeping him quiet about your identity?" Seth fishes a small pack of Sage sticks from his pocket. He brandishes them with a wave, adopting a wry expression. "Unbelievable…" Marx shakes his head. "So you brought him aboard... and _kept him_ aboard. _Him._" Marx whispers back harshly. "Why?!"

Seth scrambles for a professional answer. "He had already seen too much! I couldn't just let him go! It could jeopardize the entire mission."

"Well there was always a second option," Marx sneers.

Seth assumes a mildly horrified expression. "Leave him?" he whispers. "I could never do that."

"Because he is profitable elsewhere?" Marx spits, as if he cannot possibly contemplate another reason.

"… Because he's my brother," Seth states, gazing up at him. Marx's resolve wanes. He does not reprimand the decision, or even lash out with a malicious retort. He watches as Seth hurries down the corridor.

Yes. It's all Loki's fault.

* * *

Jinx taps her talon-like index nail against the armrest of her chair. She purses her black lips, her dark eyes darting from face to face with her own special brand of disapproval.

"So. Would someone care to tell me how two, not one, but two prisoners, one of which I quite liked, managed to skirt a priority one containment cell block?"

"It appears-" Cybil begins. Jinx locks eyes on her, offence and rage exuding from her tense expression. Cybil quickly bows her head, folding her hands as she stares at her feet. "Captain."

Jinx settles back into her chair. "Speak, Third."

"It appears ma'am, that Sharp was…" She's blushing fiercely. Marx can see the violent shade of red in her cheeks. "In the midst of… relations… with one of the prisoners." Seth rolls his eyes, assuming a disgruntled look.

"And where is he now?" Jinx asks, narrowing her eyes.

"He- He's dead Captain. He was discovered in Sage's cell." Sage, Marx gathers, is the code name Seth and his brother Gene created. They cannot afford to be connected. There is a quiet, collective gasp from the assembly. They glance at one another. It is clear to Marx that this crew has existed for quite some time by the distress in their faces.

She scoffs, vindictively pleased. "That man was always too bold which where he put his cock. He should have known better." Her unforgiving eyes sweep over her assembled crew. "Let this be a lesson to you all. That man is dangerous. I alone grant authorization to access him. Had Sharp survived, his negligence would have cost him his life by my own hand. Am I understood?"

"Yes Captain," the crew remits as a group.

Jinx sighs. "What is their present course?" she asks Cybil.

"Their trajectory takes them to Abrava."

"I want my prisoner back, Cybil. The other maggot is of no concern to me." Marx tightens his fists. She has no grounds to refer to Loki in such a way. The potency of his defensiveness catches him off guard. Surely, it is merely because of his own mission.

"Captain," Seth remarks. She looks at him, adopting more of a patient smile. Marx is having a hard time deciphering whether it is genuine or contrived. "With your permission, I will assemble a team to take him back into custody."

Jinx appears to be considering it when she takes notice of Marx's presence for the first time. "What is he doing up here?"

Seth thinks fast. "He wishes to aid in the search for the other prisoners. After all, one of them is a comrade of his. He fears… Sage may have taken him by force, as a collateral of some kind. He has extensive knowledge of Abrava as a former member of the mining colony. He would be a valuable asset to us." Marx is impressed with how easily Seth is able to lie. It is a quality he does not recall him possessing before.

Jinx addresses Marx, "What is your name, tall, dark, and dangerous?"

He inclines his chin. "I thought that was of no interest to you," Marx replies flatly. Seth seals his lips and closes his eyes. He would like nothing more than to dig his heel into Marx's foot.

Jinx stares at him with a mix of contempt and curiosity. She chuckles. "Very well. We can chat upon your return." To Seth, "See that he does return." She fixes her eyes on Marx, but continues to speak to Seth. "Should something unfortunate befall our Sage, I'll need a new plaything." She speaks to Marx now. "And do remember, sir... you still owe me a gift."


	31. Roads Untraveled

**Weep not for roads untraveled. Weep not for paths left alone.**

**'Cause beyond every bend is a long blinding end.**

**It's the worst kind of pain I've known.**

**Give up your heart left broken and let that mistake pass on.**

**'Cause the love that you lost wasn't worth what it cost…**

**and in time you'll be glad it's gone.**

**~ Linkin Park**

* * *

By team, of course, Seth meant him and Marx. After all, following the loss of their primary pilot the Inferno can afford to spare very little crew members. The only personnel he could even consider taking along was Cybil because she is amicable and easy to control. He thinks quite highly of her and finds her modesty, namely in the life of a pirate, very endearing. Moreover, she is not an unfortunate looking woman and had his top priority not been to avoid romantic entanglements, he would have probably tested the waters of a relationship some time ago.

With Marx back in the picture, his life is exponentially complicated. Marx has been the only man, or male one might say, that Seth has developed covetous feelings for. Now they are embarking on a mission together.

And as they sit in the hull of their much smaller auxiliary vessel, a sleek (stolen) Nacrean Cruiser, he cannot help but feel the space shrink.

He takes the pilot's position while Marx mans the command station. He puts his body on autopilot so his mind can wander. Where it goes makes him flush. Gene and Loki are only a few hours ahead of their location. Seth should be focused on apprehending them. But his attention lies more with apprehending the physical affections of the blonde behind him. He tells himself what he feels is not love. It is purely lust, which is accurate for the most part. Being celibate for as long as he has does take its toll. He erects a shield around his mind before it wanders too far, so that Marx cannot read his thoughts - an ability Seth has long suspected him of having.

* * *

Marx senses the wall. It is not like Seth to shut him out like so. Their connection, especially in close proximity, is potent. Everything is so loud in the cold silence of space. Marx extends his psychic ability, but not in a threatening way, metaphorically knocking on Seth's mind.

His eyes bore into the slighter man's meticulously straight back. Marx has always admired his posture. It is not unlike Loki's, which makes him hesitate a little. It makes him question his motives.

* * *

Seth feels the psychic tap from his magnetic match. He gives the moment pause before he opens himself, just slightly, as though cracking open the door to peek outside. Marx increases the power output enough to forge the door open wider. It is domineering, but in no way damaging.

Marx knows better than that.

The presence lingers. They touch. An electric charge tingles through him. Seth knows this is a bad idea. They aren't even facing one another, but Seth can sense him beyond the physical as though they were in one another's arms.

He lets him enter. The sensation heats his cheeks, because the energy from Marx is heady and extremely hormonal. It is curious, strong, and plainly aroused. No words are spoken as Marx bleeds more energy into him, probing deeper. Seth's breath quietly catches in his throat. His legs start to spread on their own. Partially mortified, Seth suddenly comes to his senses, but before he can shut Marx out, the man floods him with power that sends every nerve ending buzzing. His mouth falls open, his pulse heightened. Marx's weapon and Seth's shield caress each other, scraping, brushing, rubbing…

Seth does not recoil when Marx projects a deliciously explicit image into his mind. Their connection has matured with age, growing stronger… vivid. That must be the case if Marx is able to do this. They're on the ground. Seth's hands are bound and his cheek against the floor. His mouth is gagged. The image starts to move, coming to life as it clears into focus. Marx is between his thighs, the fluid motions of his hips thrusting his thick, throbbing erection into him. The sheen of sweat on their bodies lets him know they have been at it for some time.

Seth's breath comes in quiet, shallow gasps as he watches Marx fuck him in this unfamiliar, highly erotic, sensual way, his own arousal stiff and wanting underneath him, pointing at a small puddle of cum.

"Stop," he whispers in a tone devoid of any authority. "Commander…" It's too much. Seth stands up. He feels Marx withdraw, leaving his body aching and hot with desire. "I ask that you not toy with me this way," he says lowly, afraid to face him for fear the lust will be written all over his face.

"Come to me," Marx says flatly.

Seth fists his hands defiantly. "We should focus on the task at hand. My mission is on the-"

"I gave you an order." And it is an order Seth wants to follow with every sexual fiber of his being.

Seth gradually steps around his seat and faces Marx. The man lounges back, the intimidating mass he is, with his legs open and his fingers steepled. The engorged bulge in his uniform is evident. Seth approaches him. "On your knees," Marx prompts. Seth obeys this too. He knows Marx is taking advantage of how aroused he is.

He knows the man only wants one thing. Still, that does not stop him.

* * *

Marx reaches out and cups Seth's chin. His hand is rough and broad. He runs his thumb over his mouth. It will be so much easier, so much more enabling, to have a partner this willing. "Long have I desired those virgin lips. But not exactly in the traditional sense." Seth 's tanned cheeks flush with surprise. "You thought I didn't know?" Marx says with a predatory grin.

* * *

Seth stares longingly into his blue eyes. He presses his palm against Marx's covered cock. He starts to trace the outline of it through the fabric. He is young yet, approaching what will be his twentieth birthday. He was fifteen when Thanos pulled him off of Red Giant and into this undercover mission, during which he did not have the luxury of sex. As well as he knows his own body, he has never been intimate with someone else. It is a sore spot for him.

Marx unzips the flaps of his rebel disguise. Seth's eyes dart down, following the exposed skin. Finally, Marx's cock springs free. Marx pushes his thumb between Seth's lips. "Show me how much you want it. Show me where your truest devotion lies. Show me how well you'll treat my cock."

* * *

Loki shoulders the window frame, staring out into the black void that is their ocean of stars. He wonders if Marx misses him. He wonders if he is thinking of him. It aches to exist so far away, no matter how much he wanted to escape when they were together. He wonders about the strange attraction between Marx and Seth… and hopes that he merely imagined it.

Gene's foggy reflection appears in the glass over his shoulder. When the man is in his booted, belted leathers, they are the same height. Loki's eyes glide away, adopting a disinterested expression as he leers at the scenery.

"We're coming up on Abrava," Gene says. He uses an overly optimistic tone, one that he obviously hopes will attract Loki's attention. Loki remains unresponsive and cold as a mountain slope. "You worried about your mate?" Gene asks.

"He is not my mate," Loki hisses back. It is true, being that there is nothing about Marx that constitutes him as a friend.

Loki knows he has said precisely the wrong thing when he notices a sly grin slide onto Gene's face. "Oohh. So it's like tha', huh?"

Tersely, "Is it not like anything. "

Gene props a hand on his half-bare hip, weight displaced unevenly enough to curve his figure. "Come off 'et. I saw you watching in the cell… but I know you wuh' thinking of someone else."

"How would you know that?" Loki scoffs, turning his head just slightly towards his shoulder, though his body remains canted away.

* * *

The response comes easy because Gene has numbed himself to how much it hurts. "Cause I'm a stand-in for somethin' clients can't 'ave… and that's the look they usually give me."

* * *

Seth's hands explore, practically dissolving in a sweltering vat of moans and need. He pushes the uniform from Marx's shoulders.

* * *

The younger man's body is lithe and sensitive. Touching Seth this way ignites bizarre tingling sensations in his palms. More than anything, he enjoys tangling his fingers into Seth's white tresses, bringing him in for hungry kisses or tilting his head back to have a go at his neck. Marx can tell Seth is too aroused to deny him, not to mention that Marx has invaded his mind too deeply for him to be able to refuse. Manipulation was always Seth's strength, even as a younger man. But now it is Marx's turn.

Marx must make certain that Seth is bound tighter to him than to Thanos. His services could prove useful. Plus, Seth is the only one who could stand in the way of his metaphysical hammer.

His lips feel the pulsing of his jugular, his tongue traversing his throat in warm, wet strokes. His cock is completely upright and aching after the eager pull of Seth's mouth, following which Marx dragged him up to straddle his lap. The chair is becoming decidedly problematic and confining.

Seth is not Loki.

But he will do.

For now…

Marx removes Seth's vest and unfastens his leathers. Seth flushes darkly when Marx dips his hand under their hem and fondles what he will soon be embedded in. The hole Marx fingers is tight and untouched. He seizes Marx's wrist in surprise. The air is fragrant with the scent of fresh blood, surfacing with the darkening blush.

Marx kisses Seth into the cargo chamber, where they have considerably more room, and strips him bare. The air is cold, but Marx's body compensates. Seth is unprepared when Marx ties his wrists together with a strap for securing cargo and spins him around. "I will not gag you," Marx growls maliciously into his ear. Seth can feel him smiling against the shell. "I want to hear every syllable that drops from your lips." Marx forces him to his knees and lays him out into a most comprising position – the same vision projected into Seth's mind, albeit that now it is real.

* * *

Marx leans over his prize and plants one granite palm on Seth's wrists, rooting them to the ground. He reaches between his thighs. Seth moans when his rough fingers curl around his aching erection, already leaking precum. He twists his wrists against their bindings, his hips already moving to thrust eagerly into Marx's hand.

* * *

Marx knows Seth's saliva has dried. He needs something better.

* * *

Seth can only spread his legs wider as Marx milks him remorselessly. He emits a desperate plea when the feeling peaks, ejaculating over Marx's hand. His moaning softens. He is so incoherent with pleasure that he pays no heed to Marx removing his hand from his arousal. Marx coats his cock with Seth's warm seed.

Marx's hips come forward, pressing the belly of his slippery, aching arousal into the seam of Seth's body. Seth goads him on with a ragged, sexually spent moan. But Seth's eyes start to widen when he realizes where Marx means to put it. Even against his buttocks, he can tell the swollen tool is enormous. He tenses instinctively. "Commander—" He shivers.

"None of that, now." Marx worms his way through his currently weak psychic defenses and floods him with another wave of the sexual chi their inverted powers facilitate. Seth's muscles relax just as Marx inserts two fingers, scissoring into him. Seth moans, mouth agape. The fingers are soon replaced with something far more substantial. He feels too full, to stretched at first. But his body adjusts. It starts to feel good. In fact… it feels…

It feels fantastic. It feels aggressive and primal, and every time Marx so much as moves he strikes a pleasure center Seth was not aware he possessed. By the cosmos, if Seth did not regard this man as god before, he does now.

* * *

Marx pushes his hips forward, stirring his cock around inside of his submissive virgin. He is pleased when Seth pushes back receptively, pressing his buttocks against his hips, taking him in even deeper.

Marx squeezes his hips with bruising force before he starts rutting into him in rhythm.

* * *

Seth can do everything but form intelligible words at that point. Three has him close. Five has him coming again. He starts worshipping Marx in moans. It is overwhelming and Seth is no longer himself. The air grows hot.

Sometime later, Marx seeds him. Seth is too exhausted to move, which is probably for the best as Marx is already making decisions for him. He is on his back now, staring up in unbridled wonder at the Commander. Marx moves to kiss him briefly before nosing under his jaw. Seth realizes too late where this is going and can only cry out when the man's blunted human teeth bite down into his flesh. The pain shocks him into sharp relief. But what truly destroys him is when Marx starts leafing through the pages of his memories… and Seth's powers won't respond.

He squirms, even as Marx delves his way between his thighs, pinning him in place.

"You bastard. You planned this," he hisses nauseously. A heady sensation induces dizziness. Marx examines his memories of the secret mission and his time with Thanos, drinking in every detail. Seth eventually stops struggling. His senses dull, his body going limp and almost doll-like underneath him. The betrayal hurts, somewhere in the very back of his mind… somewhere

far away.

The minutes drag on. Marx takes more and more, making Seth less and less his own.

The jewel-like facets fade from the young lieutenant's eyes, replaced with a vacant milky glaze.

What was he thinking about? Where is he? … Who is he? Maybe he'll remember once he gets some sleep. Once he… wakes up…


	32. Flying Through the Air

Marx navigates Seth's memories like a bull in a china shop. In his haste to see the truth, he rockets through his mind, ripping through one mental barrier after another. He leaves his defenses in shambles. Seth's struggles are futile under his monstrous form and he hardly notices when the young undercover operative stops moving entirely.

Marx is in a fugue, seeing the last few years through Seth's eyes in a reel of lightning. No matter how deeply he digs, Marx finds nothing about Loki or this mysterious Thor character. But perhaps the most surprising discovery is that, at the center of Seth's mind, Marx finds an image… of himself.

Marx retreats immediately.

There is nothing to cushion the blow of horror when he dislodges his teeth from Seth's neck and pulls back to look into the face.

The boy's eyes are open, but lifeless. They stare vacantly at something across the ship's hull. He is still breathing, but the motion is shallow – reflexive.

_The aftermath is even worse. Loki's numb body stumbles around in a fog for a day or two, uncertain what is truth and what is contrived. _

Marx's eyes grow, his blood awash in denial.

_He hallucinates. He forgets his location. He has no appetite. _

"Lieutenant," he prompts authoritatively. Seth gives no response, no acknowledgement, not even to let Marx know he hears him.

_He drifts in and out of consciousness, misplacing his identity, like a living doll. _

Marx wipes the blood from his chin and lips, but the stain remains and has now spread to his hand. Justification takes Marx by storm, immediately on the defensive. This was never his intention. He didn't mean to.

_He is trapped in his own body. _

But that does not change a thing.

_During these times, he has endured several horrific incidents with individuals more depraved than himself._

Marx starts to shake his head. Hoarsely, "Seth…"

_It is not uncommon…_

No.

_for victims less powerful _

In desperation, "No!"

_to never awaken from that trance-like condition._

Marx leaves Seth's body on the floor. He rises and staggers backward, inadvertently bumping up against the wall. He has known Seth since he was a child. Marx taught Seth everything he knew about psychic ability. They shared pieces of each other, inverted images of the same ability. Marx taught Seth how to defend against psychic attacks. In his shock, Marx realizes that Seth never once mounted an attack or defense against him. He never had a chance. It happened too fast. It happened too fast!

And now… he can't go back.

Marx starts to examine his hands. He would never do this. Not to Seth. He wouldn't do this. Not to Loki. Because he's… not…

A splitting pain erupts in his head. It is so debilitating that Marx crumbles to his knees. He begins to bleed from the nose. His grunts and groans escalate. And soon, despite all his efforts, he is writhing on the floor, screaming.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I sincerely apologize for the brevity of this chapter. I just finished moving and am now in the process of applying for a slew of ghost writing jobs.

It's quite fun.

Now that I am settled in, the updates should come much more often. ;)

The song I used is the opener for Resident Evil Retribution by tomandandy. Powerful tune. Powerful scene. Loved that they played it all in reverse. Chills errywherrrreee. If you're a fan of Rise of the Guardians, check out Carnival of Rust. My Teen Wolf fic is on the way too.


	33. Castle of Glass

**~ Linkin Park**

* * *

Loki sits up with a start, having succumbed to exhaustion in the cruiser's only bed. His skull pounds as though something has taken a steel beam to it. There is nothing he can do to mitigate the ache.

Meanwhile, Gene is in the cargo hold. He busies himself, taking apart and reassembling a monstrous battle-gun, fitting it with miscellaneous parts he discovered in the artillery cache. He sets it aside, his body on autopilot. He extracts his hunting knife from the belt around his thigh and flips it into an offensive hold. He starts to polish the weapon with a packing cloth and inadvertently catches his reflection in the gleaming blade.

_(Take me down to the river bend. Take me down where the fighting ends. _

_Wash the poison from off my skin and how me how to be whole again.)_

Loki's eyes stray to the widow, wider than it is tall, lining the wall. He stares into the quiet of space, having no idea what awoke him. Yet, he can sense, somewhere in a distant gleam, that something is wrong. Loki has no idea where to go from here. He is aboard a stolen ship with a whoring scoundrel – yet again a fugitive in a galaxy that eternally has it out for him.

_(Fly me up on a silver wing, past the black where the sirens sing._

_Warm me up in a nova's glow and drop me down to the dream below.)_

Gene finishes the task at hand, his weapons ready for whatever may come. Gene does not know, like Loki does, what may await them on the treacherous surface of Abrava. He has his suspicions based on rumors and embellished gossip, but other than that… He has yet to truly experience the horrors.

_(Cause I'm only a crack in this castle of glass, hardly anything there for you to see. _

_For you to see.)_

Loki recalls the vaporous cure – the acrid violet spice permeating the planet at the time of his rescue. If what Rogers claimed was true, and it was indeed an antidote, there may be hope for him. He may yet be alive. Can Loki truly hand him over to Gene? What in Odin's name will the vagrant do to him? Loki puts his feet on the floor. His head is spinning. He swallows down the nagging idea that the farther he gets from Marx, the weaker he becomes.

_(Bring me home in a blinding dream, through the secrets that I have seen _

_Wash the sorrow from off my skin and show me how to be whole again.)_

Gene takes the pilot's position at the helm. He engages the landing gear and gravitational neutralizers, disbanding the weapon shields and replacing them with heat buffers. He waits for the craft to stabilize before he enters the atmosphere. He notices a strange lavender mist as they descend. It cloaks the planet like thick fog, creating greyish condensation on the windshields. By the time the cruiser touches down, he can hardly see a hundred feet out of the main view screen.

Loki emerges into the cockpit in tandem, met with the same eerie scene. He frowns. The vapor should have dissipated by now. Gene switches the generators off. The engines die out, leaving only peculiar, pervasive silence.

"Sure 'ope you know wha' you're doing," Gene mutters.

"Do I ever anymore?" Loki mumbles before he catches himself. He crosses his arms tighter. He inclines his chin and ignores the curious sidelong glance from Gene. Gene spares him the questions. He arms himself with upgraded weaponry. Loki takes a moment to marvel inconspicuously. Gene finds his feet.

_(Cause I'm only a crack in this castle of glass. Hardly anything there for you to see. For you to see.)_

Over his shoulder, "Maybe you should stay 'ere."

Loki quirks an eyebrow. Dourly, "_Oh?_"

"You're not lookin' too well, mate. No sense in the both of us risking our necks afta' escaping the Inferno in one piece." Gene takes an oxygen converter from the rack beside the hatch, bearing a light, less cumbersome resemblance to the old oxygen mask.

"Idiot," he snaps. "You have no idea what you're looking for."

Impetuous Gene rebuts with a victorious smirk. Ostentatiously, "Living bloke – tall, strong, handsome. Probably blonde and blue eyed. Ballpark?"

Loki recoils, simultaneously repulsed and amazed.

Gene smiles as he shoves a fresh magazine into his gun. "You 'ave a look about you… wheneva' you mention infatuations and lovers. And bein' tha' you're jus' about as shallow as I am, seein' 'ow you sold 'im out and awl, I think I got a pretty good 'andle on your type." He shoulders the robust firearm with his best lewd grin.

Loki glowers. Unfortunately, he finds himself unable to retort as he struggles with another bout of nausea. "Do not expect me to scour this wretched rock for your corpse."

"Unless you got a thing for dead guys too, right?" Gene jokes, his voice muffled by the filter. Ice crystals blossom over Loki's hands, his eyes threatening ruby under the green. Before Loki can retaliate, because he surely would if he could, Gene opens the hatch and hops down from the aircraft. The bay door closes behind him.

* * *

Gene lands in what has become a rotting marshland. Gene's skin immediately registers the drastic change in climate. The dry mining planet has become a cesspool of muck and humidity. The purplish mist must be at fault, wrapping the world in a constant cycle of condensation. "This shit jus' gets weirder. I need'a smoke," he quips, pulling his boot out of the slop and giving his foot a little shake. He will need to be quick. There is no guarantee that this bog will not take a liking to their ship and try to swallow it whole. Under conditions such as these, Gene does not expect Rebel Rogers to be alive anyhow.

* * *

Loki seethes as he paces through the ship, sick with rage and fatigue. Blaming it all on his general lack of nutrition, he elects to ignore the anxious nagging that something is dreadfully wrong. He has never felt so restless and uncomfortable - feverish and fragile. He does not know how to interpret it. Is it fear of the planet? Is it guilt for leaving Marx? Is it worry for Rogers?

That insufferable Gene… He is despicable. Loki might as well kill him when he returns. Better yet, he might as well have Rogers kill him, if he has indeed survived. No place is safe for Loki - a truth he is slowly coming to terms with, but he was safer where the danger was in a controlled environment. He was safer where he could manipulate and seduce and coerce the being that haunts and hunts him. Here, anything can happen. Loki despises unpredictability. Illogical.

_Marx…_

What will those foul pirates do to him? More importantly, what will Seth do to him?

After swearing, _swearing_, not to (granted, this was while Marx was in the midst of ravishing him), Loki left him _again_.

Until now, Loki would have believed it impossible, but the sobering reality spits in his face. Seth _could_ hypothetically replace him. Seth could completely, and in the most uncomplicated manner, fulfill every one of Marx's needs. And he's younger.

And then there is that vile wench captain. Though Loki knows she is no real competition, that will not stop her from cajoling him into bed.

He unknowingly works himself up until there are tears in his eyes. _Thor…_

He was so close. He was so damned close, nearly there, to salvaging a sliver of Thor in the wreckage that is Marx. For the love of all things immoral, what primordial loom of fate pitted the entire universe against their reunion?! Dammit…

Steve could never replace him – never hold a candle in comparison… So why the bloody Jotun is Loki rescuing _him_?!

* * *

Gene is well out of sight of the ship. But, as evidenced in his many walks of life, he has an excellent sense of direction – one that leads him straight into trouble. He is knee deep in muck when he comes across the first corpse. He stakes the butt of his gin against its side and turns it over. The muck rolls off its hideous face, mouth agape and frozen. The flesh and underlying tissue sloughs off, exposing bone. Gene grimaces. He suspects it was once female, but it is difficult to discern.

"Face lift gone wrong, luv. Face lift gone so wrong."

He moves on. More corpses litter the landscape ahead, the muck around them thick with bacterial masses and fly larva. Luckily, the muck is becoming shallower. No sooner has Gene finally secured a solid footing when he hears something to his right. He pivots just in time to be tackled to the ground. His gun misfires, but misses all the same. He loses his grip. It slides just out of reach. Gene feels something sharp, but shallow, plunge into the meat of his side. He reacts immediately, hooking his leg around the assailant's calf and using his strength to reverse their positions. As he assumes the upperhand, straddled atop the villain. He seizes the hunting knife from his boot-belt. He flips it into an offensive hold and shoves the flat side of the blade under the attacker's chin.

They meet eyes.

* * *

Loki's eyes snap open. He heard it clearly, vividly – as though the oaf were standing right beside him.

_Loki._

Loki finds his feet and wheels around. "Thor?" he whispers in disbelief. He continues to search the empty belly of the ship. He hears it again.

_Loki... Help me._

Loki pivots towards the view screen where a sliver of the stars is visible through the fog. He senses something – a presence, a distant extension of himself – the missing piece of his heart.

Loki assumes the pilot's position and sets the system to scan for ships in their immediate quadrant. It finds one. One. Loki's breath catches in his throat. And he just… _knows._

"Sincerest condolences, Gene," he mutters, engaging the engine and setting a course. "But there has been a change of plans."

* * *

Rogers blinks, stupefied, up at a very human looking man. There is nothing strange about his eyes or complexion. In fact, he is oddly tan. He wears an oxygen converter, which none of the infected would do. His clothing, while somewhat scant, suggests he has not been here long.

"You," the man realizes, muffled by the sieve.

"You're not-?" Rogers questions.

The man yanks the mask off… and Rogers, staring up into his eyes, feels as though he has been smacked across the face by a two by four. "No, you sniveling git! Do I look like one of those nasties?!"

"N – no," Rogers stammers.

"S'wha' I thought! Well you didn't 'ave to go and shank me!" His hand flies to the stab wound. "Bloody fuck," he mutters when he pulls his fingers back – dripping, warm, and red.

Rogers sits up, dazed. "I'm sorry I— I had no idea anyone else…" He glances down at the wound. The only knife he was able to fashion was small and shallow. The wound is not mortal, but it should be treated and wrapped as soon as possible, especially in this environment. He moves to reach for it, but the spirited man slaps his hand away.

Rogers hears a distant engine start, a launch sequence initiated – the thrusters pulsing against the ground, creating sludge ripples in the marshland that has become Abrava. They both raise their eyes as a ship lifts off out of the fog and rockets into the sky.

"What was that?" Rogers asks.

The man wilts, exhaling something like a defeated sigh. "My ride," he mutters. "And, if my intuition isn't shot to hell, the man who sold you out to me, no less. Jus' up and dump me off 'ere, yea? Tricky bastard…"

"What?" Rogers balks. "Who?"

* * *

Gene shrugs. "'Ow should I know, mate? I neva' asked 'is name. Don't much care eitha'." The wound bites into his nerves, stinging enough to make him cringe.

"What are you?" his discovery asks. "Imperialist?"

Gene manages to grin. "No, Rebel Boy," he replies. "Seeing as I've blown a few of their ships to bits, don't think they'd let me in. Definitely not." He swallows thickly. "You… You wouldn't 'appen to 'ave something to mend this, would you?" The stranger shakes his head ruefully. Gene coughs out a sigh. "I thought not." Gene reaches behind him and unclips the hip flask from a pouch in his artillery belt. "Bloody shame to waste, if you ask me." Gene fits his hunting knife between his teeth, biting down on the blade. He tugs the cap off of the flask and douses the wound. It sizzles. The lacerated skin turns white and bubbles.

"Shit. That's some pretty strong stuff," the stranger remarks, unreservedly horrified.

"… I'm aware," Gene says through the knife. Meanwhile, Gene bites down harder on the metal. When the worst of it has passed, he takes the knife out. He proceeds to tug the stranger's plasma pulse gun out of his belt.

"Do you mind?" Gene asks him, attention tracking back and forth between his eyes. The stranger slowly shakes his head, looking none too certain about Gene's motives. Gene flips the catch around his finger and points the weapon away from them. He fires several times. Something feral screeches in the distance. Gene douses the white hot barrel in alcohol. It steams and fizzles. He immediately presses it against the wound on his side. Like a cattle brand, it burns his flesh, cauterizing and closing the stab. The pain is unbelievable, but Gene has lived through worse.

Gene eventually meets the stranger's eyes and replaces the gun in its rightful holster. The pain distorts his vision but he is able to see him clearer now sans the red scope of anger. The man, even with the dirt and grime, is sinfully handsome. Gene blinks. He then glances down, realizing he is still straddling him – a fact that the stranger is fiercely aware of long before Gene is. "Well then." Gene smirks. "Circumstances bein' wha' they are. I'm Gene. Wha' did you say your name was?"

"Steve," says his former attacker.

"Righ'. Steve," Gene echoes with an arrogant smirk. Playfully, "Well then Steve. I don't s'pose you were out 'ere 'unting blokes like me…" Gene can infer what Steve thought he was, the apparent problem of infestation enduring despite the antidote. Gene does not know the specifics, but he does not need to.

"Why were you looking for me? What do you want me for?" Steve asks, furrowing his brow.

Gene responds with a languid shrug of his shoulder. It seems to put Steve at ease. "Doesn't really matta' much now, does it? As if I eva' 'ad a plan in the first place..." They watch one another the way the sun and the moon might - two beings who exist on opposite planes, in opposite frames of mind, in the light and the dark of the cards they've been dealt. A Thor and a Loki through a different lens.

Gene sees something remarkable in him.

And it's more than enough.

"You 'ave a place we can lock ourselves in?" Gene raises the flask and sloshes around the remaining contents. "Got about 'alf of it left. Not a lot. But it's enough." It is a bittersweet question because, place or no place, without a ship they will never leave this planet. Gene knows the odds now. But he's never been one to give into despair and mope about it.

"There's no clean water here," Steve says skeptically.

With a capricious smile, "Pft… Good thing I neva' drink tha' stuff."

Steve smiles back.

* * *

Author's note: Stay tuned for the final installment of Bitter for Sweet, and the opener for the sequel fic. You all are incredible. Thank you for the support throughout this endeavor!


	34. Daylight

Um. Excuse me. Did I say it was ending?

No.

There is no crying in baseball!

Except maybe from the catcher…

HA.

Seriously though. They still have so, so much to do. Loose ends are not my cup of tea.

* * *

**We knew this day would come, we knew it all along. **

**How did it come so fast?**

**This is our last night, but its late and I'm trying not to sleep. **

**Cause I know when I wake I will have to slip away.**

**And when the daylight comes I'll have to go. But tonight, I'm going to hold you so close.**

**Cause in the daylight we'll be on our own, but tonight I need to hold you so close. **

**~ Maroon 5**

* * *

_The season is mid-spring, several years later. Loki hastens to keep from stumbling as Thor strings him along through the woodland. All around him are vibrant birch, elm, and maple trees. Thor picks their way with heavy footsteps, barreling onward over game trails long bereft of travelers. Loki's eyes are darker – older, having seen more than his fair share of misfortune even as a young man. As he shoves a bramble out of his face, "Thor, what is this about?"_

"_You will see," Thor says, barreling onward through the underbrush. _

_Loki grows more apprehensive. Incredulously, "This is strangely cryptic and uncharacteristic of you… You know I despise surprises."_

"_I do." Thor turns enough to spare him a confident grin, effectively shoving Loki's stubborn streak underfoot. Loki smiles in kind. Thor laces their fingers together. The oaf should not be up this early. He needs his rest. Today is a big day for him. Their remote location is more difficult to discern this early in the morning - the crisp and cool wilds still cloaked in darkness. However, the moment they step beyond the treeline, Loki recognizes everything. They have not graced this place in some time, not since Loki's tragic episode. _

_Their hill._

* * *

Loki fumbles with the unfamiliar controls. He is led solely by Gene's example. There are few left who can boast the ability to teach Loki anything, but on the rare occasions he learns by mirroring. He constantly checks the scanner, accelerating recklessly. He glances between the digital display and the view screen, waiting with the baited breath for the moment the shuttle will appear.

* * *

_Loki steals a glance at Thor – a golden marvel haloed in the moon's silver light. He is impressed with how well the man was able to navigate through the forest, being that they have never come by this path before. Thor leads him to the crest of the hill near the tree embellished with their initials. The air grows still._

_Thor turns to face him so quickly that Loki almost runs into him. His veneer has changed drastically. The man's readily apparent anxiety is catching. Loki balks, unaccustomed to seeing Thor so frazzled. He looks uncertain. He looks apologetic. He looks frightened. Loki's pulse promptly flatlines – a sickly chill creeping across his flesh and infecting his face. He flounders in Thor's piteous gaze. He holds his breath, but nothing can prepare him for the awful event he assumes will follow. _

_Today is a day of reckoning. _

_Today is Thor's coronation._

_And tonight, Loki realizes, is the last night they can be together like this._

_And gods all, why would he expect any different?_

_Thor has grown in their life together and year apart. Loki's indiscretions with Svadilfari were something Thor was never really able to get passed. Loki's status has been steeply demoted and his insecurity about the incident dominates the majority of his thoughts. It colors his perception of absolutely everything. And apparently, it colors Thor's opinion of him as well._

_Loki knows now that Thor will never look at him the same – never see him as an equal and by extension worthy of loving. These days, Thor is more consumed with self-image – increasingly preoccupied with his reputation. Thor knows as well as Loki does that their scandal, coupled with Loki's bastard child, would not be welcomed in Asgard – their union unacknowledged and slandered, openly mocked and ridiculed… Loki, callous and inured as he is to cruelty and hatred, knows that such an adverse response would destroy Thor at this stage in his life. _

_Tears spring into his eyes. Loki averts them, calling tension to his jaw. Thor is to be King. But even as Allfather, he is ruled by the opinion of his people. As much as they believed this ascension would help their cause… it can only hinder. Loki, disgraced and defiled, does not deserve him._

_Thor is going to end them. And Loki cannot bear it._

"_Loki-" Thor starts. _

"_Don't," Loki interjects coldly. It is all he knows how to be at this final stage of the game._

_Thor's brows knit together sincerely. "But-"_

_Loki recoils, prying his hands out of Thor's grasp. "Dragging me here for this was not necessary. It's an intimate place – one you've now reduced to an eyesore and a bad memory."_

"_Wait," Thor stammers. "What do you- You already know?"_

_Loki fights tears. "From __the expression you wear, your intentions are obvious."_

_Thor wilts even farther. "So, you – I did not think you would react like this. I thought-"_

"_Oh for Odin's sake, Thor," Loki hisses, incensed. "How the bloody Naether did you think I would react?"_

"_I thought you would be… happy," he clarifies. "I thought it would be a relief."_

_Loki feels as though he has been slapped. "Happy?" Loki spits out hollowly through a strangled smile. He starts to shake his head. He folds his arms as if to fortify himself against the emotional storm. The barricade is feeble and quickly crumbling. "Do not call upon me again after today. Do not look for me, because I will not be there." Thor's big puppy-dog blues stare forlornly. Loki turns on his heel and leaves him alone on the hill. (Little does he know, the worst truth [and the straw that breaks the camel's back] is yet to come.)_

_Thor **will** pay for this..._

* * *

Deducing precisely how to join the ships without confirmation from the other vessel is no easy task. It is a clamorous and jarring process. In the end, patience frayed, Loki uses what little magic he had left to secure the seal. He disengages the engines and leaves the pilot's position. He quickly crosses through the ship to the hatch in the floor. Loki hovers above the spoke to open the door, fettered in place for fear of what he might find below. He did not think this through, which underscores the urgency he feels.

Loki jams the heel of his boot against the stubborn bar.

* * *

_Thor watches him go, devastated. His eyes fall on his hand as it reaches into his cloak and extracts something from the pocket. He opens his palm. _

_He gazes at the lonely ring... _

_and for the life of him cannot understand where he went so wrong. _

_Loki does not love him._

_Loki has no intention, nor did he ever, of marrying him._

_The bitter sting of ultimate rejection scalds him. The one creature he could give himself to without fear, whom he thought adored him despite his transgressions, will not have him. _

_Loki did not return from the forests of Asgard the same man. Thor could see the dark shroud over him even as he led the spritely colt towards the palace gates. Thor thought he could heal him – thought if he just gave him time…_

_Thor is crushed. In the pain, he allows his arrogance to reach new heights. He lets his pride and pompous personality multiply on an exponential level and assume control. He knows that the only way to remain intact, whole, is to act as though the refusal has no effect on him, to carry on with a business-as-usual stride with a loose and easy grin. _

_Thor buries the ring at the base of the tree. They never speak of this, or their mad romance, again._

_In the distance, the sun is rising._

_Daylight._

* * *

Loki lands in the corridor joining the cockpit with the hull. He checks the cockpit first, only to find an empty chamber. He swallows a spate of fear that someone else has been here before him. Refusing the accept the notion that he could be too late, Loki wheels around to make a beeline for the hull. What he sees stops him short.

Marx, who may as well be nude, stands in the corridor, his hand braced against the wall for support. His knees quake. His muscles quiver. His blond hair is a disheveled mess, having broken free of the tie. Blood stains his lips, chin, and chest. His hands and arms are spotted with red as well.

Loki stands, breathless, like a doe before a lion. His mind flashes back to the horrors aboard Red Giant – how men could turn from civil beings to ravenous blood-lusting monsters within seconds thanks to the waterborne pathogen. Loki's despair spikes. He begins to shake his head. Marx is infected. The Inferno must have jettisoned him. He could feel himself changing, which was why he called for-!

But the man raises his head.

The blood is his own, originating from his nostrils. His face is drawn with misery and desolation. Loki's breath catches in his throat. The tension melts off his face. He forgets himself as, for the first time in centuries, Loki looks into the wondrous eyes… of…

* * *

"_Unhand me!" Thor bellows as the Chitauri soldiers wrestle him into the enchanted shackles. The solid stone room, Asgard's prison deep below the surface of its vast ocean, is dark and cold and indestructible. How Loki managed to bear it, Thor will never know. But he hopes, in the depths of his soul, that Loki will keep running… and never look back from whatever safety he finds beyond the Nine Realms. _

"_I'm afraid not, Son of Odin," Thanos declares from the shadows. " I have plans for you." An old woman cleaves from the darkness too, cloaked in midnight blue. Thor recognizes her as the same being contracted by his parents to visit Loki in his darkest hours on Asgard – to teach and guide him through the aftermath of his ruin with copious amounts of self-medication. Her shoulders are wrapped in an all too familiar black pelt: payment for her newfound loyalty to Thanos, the treacherous wretch. _

_She is a Prime Witch. And his undoing. _

"_I will begin the ritual," she announces. "There is no magic in the cosmos powerful enough to reverse what I do now."_

_But Thanos knows better than to take the hag's word as god given truth. He already has his fail safe in place in the unlikely event that the memory alterations unravel._

* * *

The revelation dawns on him; blinding in its radiance. "_Thor_," Loki recognizes in a most pained whisper.

"Loki..." Thor gazes at him, the words he wants to say lost in the fog that pervades his mind. For so long, he watched Loki from afar, through vision obscured by strange memories and foul enchantments. He ventures a step forward, but does not have the strength left to get to him.

Loki hurries forward and grips him just before his knees hit the ground. Thor's giant hands fly up and find purchase in the fabric of Loki's stolen uniform, his face nestled into the catch of his neck. Loki, quickly drained of power himself, lets them sink to the floor. Tears streak his cheeks. He all but chokes on the ensuing laugh, impossibly relieved, thankful, and happy.

"What have I done?" Thor whispers low and woefully.

"It was not you," Loki tells him tearfully. Against Thor's hair, "Take heart," he promises, "It was not you."

Thor weeps quietly, immersed in relief and guilt. Loki, kneeling, and the only thing keeping Thor upright, embraces him as tightly as he can. But as tight as it is, it is still not enough. No amount of pressure he uses to hold Thor close, as though he could slip away at any moment, will ever be enough again. Words elude them through the joyous tears.

And they're back in the banquet hall, waltzing in each other's arms.

Older.

Wiser.

And worse for the wear.

But no less devoted.

And no less in love.

* * *

**Author's Note:** THE END. :) This chapter does incorporate real Norse mythology.

I did not make it up.

While it does not describe the event in detail, as there are plenty of NC17 fics that do, it makes a reference. I find it an indispensable part of Loki's past. Unless you find a fic that says otherwise or it was consensual (and those are strangely romantic), Loki was totally… erm… exploited… by a giant horse. If you are unfamiliar with the tale, you are welcome to research it. But I do warn you – it's rather sad.

Loki has lain with many monsters, according to the mythology. I personally attribute that to the fact that he viewed himself as a monster and already unclean. Since he couldn't have Thor, he basically said Fuck It and slept around with the worst of the worst. (Cause he does.) In terms of this fic, all that occurred between _Thor_ and _Avengers_ in the timeframe Loki was lost in darkness. It's so sad. People wonder why he is so deranged. I have a feeling they would all sympathize with him if they knew the facts.

I may or may not have wrote the reunion scene to the Once Upon a Time soundtrack. It happens.

Can you believe the latest episode?! HOW COULD HOOK DO THAT.

Why.

WHY?!

Anywhore. Below is the preview for the sequel fic. I will post it as a separate, new story by this weekend. Thank you all again for your fantastic reviews and encouragement.

* * *

Chapter 1: Slay It

**~ Cryptex**

* * *

They sit together on a crate in a bunker farther from the mouth of the mine. Its defenses and metal shell are not as robust as the storage unit Loki and Marx used, but it will do. The creatures, from Steve's experience, are sparse and weak. He sees less and less living every day. Come to think of it, he sees less and less_ period_. The vapor was not a cure. Rather, it nullified the mutation and engaged the desired effect of eventual death to the infected. Only to those free of infection and not previously exposed does it provide protection. Steve inoculated himself before setting foot on the planet. The concentrated amount lingering in the air should be enough to vaccinate Gene as well. They should be well protected against the contagion.

Steve cringes as he hands off the flask. The bitter, pungent, acid-like liquid burns enough to call tears to his eyes. Gene laughs and bumps up against his shoulder. "Doesn't come stronger than tha', mate." He tips the flask back and takes a swallow, remaining otherwise indifferent to the taste. Steve grimaces for him.

Steve is amazed when even he feel it. Granted, its effects do not last long due to his regenerative cells. But he feels it, which is saying something. "So what did you say you do again?"

"I didn't say," Gene replies, kicking his feet back and forth.

"Well I'm asking now," Steve prompts with a warm smirk. "You know a bit about me. Seems only fair."

"I do lots of things," Gene answers, taking another swig before handing the flask back to Steve. "More a question of wha' I don't do." He winks.

Steve, endearing and naive as ever, doesn't get the hint. Instead, he indulges him. Unbeknownst that Gene has no intention of answering, "What don't you do?" He holds the flask between his knees otherwise unattended. He does not show any signs of wanting another drink. So, naturally, Gene takes it back.

Gene takes a swig. He turns to Steve and quickly presses a kiss to Steve's lips. The man goes rigid, but loosens up enough to reciprocate. After a moment, Gene parts his lips and passes the drink into his mouth without spilling a drop. Steve, in a stupor, notices afterwards that the alcohol does not have the same burn or bitter taste. It's bearable, even pleasurable… as is (what he would define as) the kiss it came from. Steve gulps, flushed. Gene smiles smugly.

Gene tears his attention to the door when they hear a rumbling from outside. The spirited man closes the flask and assumes an impetuous grin. "Well," he hops up off the crate. He fastens the flack back into place on his belt. "I'm going to check tha' out. 'Ave to find a reason to use this anyway." He stoops over to pick up his large gun and sling the strap over his shoulder. "Are you going to sit 'ere? Or come along?"

* * *

Seth's bloody, bare skin ripples, like a tide of sun kissed pixels. What seem like scales of skin leaf up and turn over, the back of them a glossy midnight purple. The scales lay flat and liquefy, bleeding together into the solid semblance of a uniform clothing him from neck to toes. The garment effectively obscures the blood and bite marks on his throat. Finally, Seth's empty eyes change to an effervescent violet as his maker assumes control of his body. He finds his feet. Loki notices the body for the first time. He stares. Thor, sensing his tension, turns his head enough to glance back.

"Did you think it would be so easy?" asks a layered voice from Seth's lips. "Did you not think I would have a backup plan, in case you slipped my hold? I had my suspicions about sending you on this mission and, as I predicted, you failed my test. The witch will be hearing of this indeed." There's a wicked smile in his voice. "But I probably should thank you. Had you not shattered the boy so completely, full override would be considerably more difficult."

Loki, more out of the loop than he cares to admit, does not voice his confusion. Instead, his hold on Thor tightens.

The voice continues to address Thor. "Seth was designed for one purpose, and one purpose only – to act as your kryptonite."

"Which is why I was able to defeat him so easily, yes?" Thor replies with as much moxy as he can muster. He goes to stand. Loki helps him.

Seth's eyes narrow dangerously. His languid movements indicate no resistance to the control whatsoever. It is as though he acts of his own free will. "_Fool._ You had the universe at your fingertips – in command of untold power – granted unlimited access to the riches of my kingdom and the spoils of our conquests. And you throw it all away… for a dream deferred." Thanos, Loki realizes. The one speaking through Seth is Thanos. And Loki can only imagine the strength he can boast with Thanos holding the reigns. As Seth wrenches a supporting steel tube from the wall, "Pity." He begins his advance. "The Jotun is one thing, but I have no further use for you."

* * *

_To be continued..._


End file.
